Date: Fri, 10 Jun 2011 23:15:51 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 28  Gay Male/Authoritarian

'CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES'
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"

Chapter 28: 'In Transit'

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 28: 'In Transit'

The drive out from the city to "La Foret" is a pleasant one and I'd always
enjoyed making it. It's a journey I've made countless times over the years
and I know the road well. And over the past twelve months or so, I have
made it at least a dozen times and always with Norge pulling my trap.

From the driver's viewpoint it is a picturesque trip but I suspect from a
pony's perspective it is quite different. The road is far from straight -
there are too few straight stretches where it is possible to give a pony
his head and let him run at full gallop - and mostly it meanders over hills
and down valleys and slows the pony to a brisk trot.

I'd always allowed Norge to run easy on these trips and I had never driven
him too hard. Of course, he'd often found the uphill runs to be challenging
and it had been necessary for me to apply my whip to him to have him
maintain his pace.  I'd always aimed the whip low down at his ass
crack. The driver's whip I used was especially made for me. Made of the
finest quality, calf leather it is long, thin and very flexible with its
thin tip designed to slip in between the pony's upper legs and tickle his
balls. From my experience this evokes the most response from any pony and
this was always the case with Norge. One flick of the whip and he quickened
his pace appreciably. But I was humane; at the end of a solid run I always
examined Norge's balls to see if there was any swelling or welting. And if
there was, I would apply a soothing balm to ease his discomfort.

However, whenever we came to a flat, straight piece of road, Norge would
often break his stride and run faster. I always allowed him the latitude to
do this but I'm not sure why he did so. Perhaps it was to stretch his
powerful legs or possibly he was challenging himself to do better and to
show me what he was capable of or it could simply have been that the change
of pace relieved the monotony of the trip from his perspective.

Today, I'm making this trip with Norge. But I'm no longer in the driver's
seat. That place is occupied by my Master, Guy Maratier and he has a
passenger - his son Etienne. I am tied to the left side shaft of the trap
and so I'm running on Norge's left. Fastened to the right side shaft is my
fellow slave, Pollux who runs on his right.

Today, our Master is delivering both of us out to La Foret to begin our
labours as field slaves. As dreadful as this might seem, I am nevertheless
luckier than the unfortunate Pollux. My stint working as a plantation slave
is to be temporary - of six months duration - whereas Pollux has been
banished permanently; condemned to spend the rest of his days in hard
servitude. Pollux is shocked and disbelieving of his fate. He can't grasp
what is happening to him.

A recent purchase, the supremely confident Pollux felt he was destined for
better things as our Master's favourite and that soon he'd be appointed as
the new house steward to replace the unfortunate Cato.  I had overheard my
Master tell his grandmother that the luckless Cato now labours in some
hellishly hot, stone quarry. Her venomous reply that this is "better than
Cato deserves" conveyed to me the bitter spitefulness of her nature and I
know some of her malice is reserved for me.

But the overreaching Pollux's personality had angered our Mistress,
Charlotte Maratier who'd insisted there isn't a place in our Master's
household for such a cocky slave. She added that it was preposterous to
even consider him for appointment to the position of house steward. After
all there already existed a slave within the household, who in her opinion,
was eminently suited to the task and this was my former bed-slave, Ben. She
had advised her grandson to get rid of Pollux and so today, he joins me on
my trip out to La Foret.

And in accordance with his grandmother's wishes, my Master has appointed
Ben as his new house steward.

Today, as I run alongside Norge, I have all the time I need to reflect on
all that has happened to me since Lionel Schuster's appraisal of me two
weeks ago. But where do I start?

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

La Foret! This name is both lyrical and magical at the same time. Lyrical
in that it rolls musically off the tip of my tongue and magical in that it
conjures up images of great beauty and happy boyhood memories for me.

The plantation, 'La Foret' - or 'The Forest' - had been in the Barrois
family for many generations. In fact, I was the latest generation of the
Barrois to inherit it and I was one to lose it. Now it is no longer mine -
it has passed to a distant branch of the family - but in a sense I'm still
very much a part of the plantation. I am destined to become one of the
hundreds of nameless slaves who toil in its fields to generate its great
wealth.

At the last census, the plantation covers some six thousand acres of deep
rich alluvial soil which is periodically added to by the occasional
flooding of the wide river running along its northern boundary. This river
is the real source of La Foret's bountiful harvests and the Barrois have
always used it to their advantage.

Previous generations of the Barrois have used the river to irrigate the
more than three thousand acres under agriculture. The plantation is
subdivided by a grid of wide waterways that carry the water to where it is
needed to irrigate the crops. The water is kept flowing through these
canals by a series of huge waterwheels - all slave powered - working
nonstop around the clock for 365 days a year and which keep the water
flowing into a series of narrower channels that criss-cross the fields
under cultivation. Again the water is kept flowing through these lesser
channels by smaller waterwheels and it is finally delivered onto the crops
by strategically placed water pumps. And it goes without saying that these
smaller waterwheels and pumps - like the larger ones on the canals - are
also operated by slaves.

These canals and channels are high maintenance - they are continually
'silting up' and must be kept clear to maintain a constant water flow - and
the plantation has always had special gangs of slaves to perform this task.
Traditionally, these gangs have been recruited from among the more
troublesome elements of La Foret's slave population. The intransigent, the
chronically lazy and the argumentative slave finds corrective and
beneficial employment in these gangs. Working belly deep in mud and water -
and controlled by the bullwhips of their overseers - it is hard for these
miserable wretches to be anything other than gainfully employed.

Of all my happy boyhood memories perhaps the one that lingers with me the
most has me sitting beside my grandfather as he drove his pony and trap
around the plantation on his daily tours of inspection. Always without
exception, he would stop and watch these channel cleaners as they toiled
away. On my grandfather's approach, the overseers would bring their whips
into prominent play as though they wished to impress him with their
diligence.

I also enjoyed these halts; as I watched the slaves at their work I was
affected by some as yet unidentified emotion. I was faintly disturbed by
their naked physicality and their sheer animal like strength; I found this
unsettling; yet each day I looked forward to returning and observing
them. In time, I would see this through different eyes.

I had been orphaned as a small boy and I spent my lonely childhood with my
beloved grandparents who both loved the pastoral peace and quiet of the
plantation. Consequently, much of my boyhood was spent at La Foret and I
also came to love the place. Even as an adult I had visited it at every
opportunity. It was my safe haven; a quiet refuge from the noise of the
city and a peaceful counterfoil to the hurly burly of the many business
enterprises for which I was responsible. I escaped to La Foret whenever I
was troubled or in need of peace and quiet. I loved La Foret with every
fibre of my being.

Today, I'm returning to La Foret but not as its owner; I am now one of its
hapless slaves.

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


It was Jean-Marc de Barrois who established the family in the New
World. Family history has it that the young, French aristocrat had fled
Revolutionary France for the safety and security of the family's sugar
holdings in the Caribbean where for the next few years he'd
prospered. However, he'd been forced to flee for a second time during a
violent uprising of the island's black slaves which saw the white
population almost wiped out.

Alone and penniless, Jean-Marc was forced to find new ways to recoup his
lost fortunes. Family tradition has it that he became a successful
privateer raiding English shipping for rich booty and eventually amassing
enough money to buy and establish La Foret thus laying the foundations for
the family's later prosperity.

The family always found the notion that this first Barrois - he dropped the
aristocratic "de" before his name - was a pirate as romantic. Indeed as I
was growing up, I heard the story repeated many times and I shared the
family's pride in my famous pirate ancestor. But often in the murkiness
that passes as family history truth and reality are two different things
and it wasn't until after my grandfather's death that I discovered the true
foundation of the family's wealth.

As the sole beneficiary to my grandfather's estate, I had access to all the
family records and papers dating back over the previous Barrois
generations. Buried within these were the sordid secret and the ugly truth
of where we had acquired our enormous wealth. Jean-Marc wasn't the romantic
privateer of family tradition. The truth was more sordid; he was a
ship-owner and slave-trader who delivered countless, hapless victims to the
horrors of the plantations of the New World.

At first, I'd been shocked by this revelation. Hadn't my grandfather always
despised those who made their livings from dealing in human flesh? And
hadn't I shown my contempt too in my treatment of people like Lionel
Schuster. At first, the thought occurred to me that my behaviour was
hypocritical.  Then I convinced myself that I shouldn't feel guilty; after
all I'm not responsible for the actions or guilt of my forebears - am I?
It was so easy to assuage my conscience.

And anyway slavery is perfectly legal - all of my class benefit from it -
so why should I stand in judgement of its practice some hundreds of years
ago. True, slavery had been abolished and during that period, La Foret had
stagnated. Without a stable, cheap labour force it had become unprofitable
and it has languished. It survived only because of the Barrois family's
strong attachment to its roots.  Several generations ago, the family had
diversified and broadened its investment base and there had been ample
funds from these new enterprises to subsidise operations at plantation. The
family's sentimentality for its traditions had saved La Foret for each
succeeding generation.

Fortuitously, with the re-introduction of modern slavery, La Foret's
fortunes looked up once more.  Now with an assured supply of cheap,
constant slave labour it became profitable and now stands as one of the
jewels in the Barrois treasury.

But I forget; the Barrois are no more. They have been replaced by another
branch of the family - the Maratier's. I am the last of the once proud and
powerful Barrois dynasty. And even that name has been taken from me. Now I
am a slave known simply as Rafe and I'm on my way to join the slave labour
force of the plantation that was so recently mine.

The irony of this isn't lost on me. The first Barrois had laid the
foundations for the enormous wealth that I had so recently inherited on the
whip scarred backs and sweat stained bodies of countless, wretched
slaves. Grimly, I reflect that, as the last Barrois, I am now a slave
condemned to continue this shameful tradition and to labour in those same
fields.

But there is one final, supreme irony that doesn't escape me. All the
overseers at La Foret are black - some are probably descendants of those
first African slaves who laboured for Jean-Marc Barrois all those centuries
ago. What a bitter twist of fate. Their descendants are now the black over
lords of La Foret while the last Barrois heir of Jean-Marc is doomed to
work under their whips as a white slave.


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

CANED:

So much has happened to me in the past two weeks and events are a tangled
collection of confused thoughts and recollections.  How do I go about
making sense of it all? Where do I begin?

I suppose the best way is to deal with them chronologically and begin at
the beginning.

After my appraisal by Lionel Schuster and after my Master had concluded his
business with his lawyer, Simon Barrow, he points Norge towards home and
has him run at a fast pace. Pollux and I are tethered on either side of
Norge and we have to keep pace with him. Obviously, our Master is in a
hurry to return home and he applies his whip to Norge mercilessly.

The sun is now past its zenith but there is very little relief from the
energy sapping, late afternoon heat. Soon all three of us are lathered in
sweat and I don't know about Norge or Pollux but soon I convince myself
that I am at the end of my endurance. My chest heaves as I gulp air into my
oxygen starved lungs - I'm convinced they are about to burst - and my
tortured legs feel like jelly which are about to collapse under my
weight. Once or twice I do stumble only to feel the agonising sting of my
Master's driving whip on my naked body. And to add emphasis to this, he
commands me to stay focused and maintain my momentum. It has to be said the
whip provides a strong incentive to obey an order and it is a powerful
motivator for good performance.

Upon our arrival home, all three of us are on the verge of collapse and
immediately my thoughts are for Norge. Poor Norge! Guiltily, I consider my
self- indulgent pity is nothing compared to the distress he must feel. I
had only to run whereas Norge had the full weight of the trap and its
driver behind him.

To my surprise I see my former body-slave Ben hurry into the courtyard and
drop to his knees in front of our Master. This is unusual. Protocol
dictates that the Master is always welcomed home by his steward and as far
as I know Cato hasn't been replaced. I'm not to know that our Mistress,
Charlotte Maratier has taken it upon herself to have Ben act as the interim
steward until Master makes a permanent appointment.

Master - how easy it has become for me to think of Guy Maratier as
'Master'- talks with Ben and moves inside the house. Ben seems to have a
new found confidence and busies himself organising the yard slaves as we
are unharnessed and given water to drink while others bring out the caning
bench from the stables and place it in the centre of the courtyard. I'm
concerned when I see this but then I remember Pollux is a new slave and he
is to be initiated into the household with his ritualistic caning.  I
breathe easier and sigh with relief that it is Pollux who will be caned and
not me.

It's obvious that Pollux is mightily impresses by his new home. His mouth
is agape as he takes in the size and grandeur of our Master's home. It is
much bigger and more palatial than he ever envisaged and it far surpasses
anything that he'd been exposed to in the past. He can only wonder at the
enormous wealth of his new owner.

If I was a mind-reader I would be surprised at what Pollux is
thinking. Pollux was until today, a one man's slave. He'd only ever had one
master - a man of modest means and Pollux was the youngest of his three
slaves - the other two being much older. This owner was elderly and in the
early stages of dementia and he soon became enraptured - and trapped -by
his charming, young slave's considerable talents in the bedroom. It was a
situation open to abuse and the wily Pollux exploited it to the fullest.
Within a very short time he controlled both his forgetful owner and his
household and he had manoeuvred himself into the position as head of the
household.  He was now the unofficial master.  This power fed his ambition
and boosted his ego until he considered himself untouchable. But his master
had recently died - an unforeseen setback - and the executors of the estate
had no use for a slave of overblown self-importance and questionable
behaviour and he had been packed off, along with the other two slaves, to
be sold.

Pollux looks around at his new home and its slaves. He sees both as ripe
for a takeover.  He tells himself that this new owner is an easy target and
open to manipulation. And he will use his body and his considerable bedroom
talents to both tempt and seduce his new master. He just knows that once
Guy Maratier has tasted the delights of his body, he'll have him eating out
of the palm of his hand.

But Pollux is puzzled by all the activity taking place around him. Why are
all the household slaves now assembling in the courtyard and what is that
strange contraption standing at its centre? And who is this distinguished
looking gentleman and his brutish slave who have just joined them?

I watch as Major Swanston walks towards me and I lower my eyes to the
ground both as a mark of respect and out of the shame I feel at standing
naked before the man who has known me since childhood.

"Good afternoon, Rafe. How are you?"

"Good afternoon, Sir." I answer respectfully without raising my eyes. "I'm
well - thank you Sir."

"Good boy! And what duties did your Master assign to you today?"

"None Sir! My Master took me to be valued, Sir."

"Did he indeed? I must ask him about your worth. But tell me Rafe - have
you been behaving yourself?"

"I think so, Sir."

"That's the wrong answer boy. The answer is either yes or no. Not - 'I
think so'. Slaves don't think."  Sternly, he repeats his question. "Now
I'll ask you again. Have you been a good slave?"

What answer can I give? Can a slave be the judge of his own actions? Can he
pre-empt his master's decision about his behaviour? Quickly, I think back
over the day's events and decide my misdemeanours were trivial. There is
only one answer I can give.

"Yes Sir! I've been a good slave, Sir. But you must ask my Master if he
thinks I've been good and if he is satisfied with me, Sir."

And I hope my answer is the right one.

The Major is joined by my Master and together they inspect a surprised
Pollux. It's obvious that he isn't used to such inspections. He lacks
experience and he is unsure of what is expected of him. The Major asks my
Master's permission to examine Pollux in more detail and, permission
granted, he now orders the slave to display. Pollux hesitates and receives
a stinging slap to the face and is told to - "do it now!"

Pollux stands trembling as the Major's eager hands explores the plains and
valleys of his body and I see the crimson flush of his shame as the Major
hefts and weighs his balls and strokes his cock to full erection. I see the
tears brimming in his eyes as he is ordered to "turn, bend and spread" and
I watch as his tormentor excites his puckering anus. Then with a loud,
dismissive slap on the ass, Pollux is ordered to "stand and face the
front".

I'm standing in a group with my fellow slaves and we watch and listen
impassively as Major Swanston congratulates our Master on his latest
purchase. He declares Pollux to be "fine specimen and a good buy". Then he
adds.

"Well I suppose we should continue with the business in hand. Brutus is
ready if you are, Guy?"

Poor Pollux! Still shocked by Major Swanston's treatment of him, he is
blissfully unaware of what is about to happen and he watches as Brutus
checks out the restraints on the whipping bench and takes the Whippistik
from Ben. Then his curiosity gets the better of him and he asks me.

"What's happening? What's going on?"

How do I answer? How do I tell him he is about to undergo an archaic,
ritualistic act of barbarity that I had inherited from my forbears and
which I had enthusiastically endorsed when I was the Master?  How do I tell
him of the agonising pain he is about to experience as his ass is savagely
caned by the gorilla-like slave, Brutus? I know that pain only too well. My
own ass still aches from my two recent canings. From out of my own
suffering, I feel pity for Pollux but also relief that he is the one being
caned and not me. Emotionally, I couldn't take another caning.  But how do
I answer Pollux's question? Fortunately, I don't have to.

Pollux is nonplussed as Ben directs two burly yard slaves to take hold of
him and lead him over to the bench. Pollux still hasn't made the connection
between the bench and himself. He submits peacefully and allows himself to
be lead towards the whipping frame and I'm reminded of an unsuspecting lamb
going to its slaughter.

 From somewhere among the watching house slaves there is ripple of nervous
laughter. I suspect this laughter isn't malicious. It's not prompted by any
sadistic anticipation of watching as a fellow slave suffers. Rather it is
the nervous laughter of profound relief that we aren't the ones to be
caned. We - all of us without exception - have been in Pollux's
position. And we know what he is about to experience.

Approaching the bench, Pollux seems uncomprehending. It's not until the
sadistic Brutus swipes the cane through the air several times that the
truth finally dawns on him. He hears the fearful whine as the cane as it
cuts through the resisting air and he sees Brutus's limbering up of his
whipping arm.  Now he struggles in the firm grasp of the two slaves and he
vainly tries to dig his heels into the cobblestoned surface of the yard. He
pleads with our Master to spare him all to no avail. Despite his
struggling, he's soon fastened into position with his upper body resting on
the bench top and his arms stretched out before him. Soon his legs too are
tied into place and his ass positioned at just the right angle for the
cane.

Pollux has never been caned and he is totally unprepared for his ordeal. He
is shocked beyond belief that this is happening and once more he begs our
Master to spare him. Master ignores his pleas and he and the major walk
over to examine the terrified slave. The Major places his hand on Pollux
rump and is quick to comment.

"Guy, viewed from this angle, I can see what attracted you to this boy."

"Yes major it was the deciding factor for me. He wriggled his ass at me and
I was smitten."

"I can understand that, Guy. But after Brutus is finished with him I don't
think he'll be wriggling his posterior for a few days." The Major laughs
and asks. "What do you think?"

"No I shouldn't think so. Brutus certainly knows how to lay the cane on
doesn't he? I know that Rafe is still sore. A couple of times today I saw
him rubbing his ass when he thought I wasn't looking."

"That's good, Guy! A slave needs to feel his caning for quite a few days
after receiving it. As I always say it keeps his mind wonderfully focused
on being an obedient slave. But if you're ready let's carry on, shall we?"

Brutus follows his usual custom and now plays with Pollux by swishing his
cane through the air always stopping just short of making contact with his
body. Previously, Brutus had done the same with Cato and I and I well know
the state of Pollux's mind. He would be in turmoil as he prepares his
terrified mind and involuntarily tightens his body in anticipation of the
excruciating pain only to have it not materialise. Several times Brutus
plays his cruel mind-game until Pollux is lulled into a false sense of
security and relaxes. Then Brutus strikes with the full force of his
strength.

I shudder as I hear the swish of the cane and the loud thwack as it lands
on Pollux's unprotected rump.  There is a momentary silence before the
slave's loud, agonised shriek. I try not to watch the steady, methodical
rise and fall of the cane and I try to shut out Pollux's pain filled cries
of agony. I am filled with pity for Pollux. It is the unique pity that one
slave feels for another's suffering and I avert my eyes away from the
obscene spectacle being played out before me. I look back towards Master's
house and I see his grandmother looking down into the courtyard from an
upstairs window. She obviously doesn't share my squeamishness. Then I
remember I'd been caned previously for doing this - Master had said I'd
shown disrespect to my Mistress by looking directly at her - and I quickly
look away. I hope she hasn't seen me looking in her direction? Hopefully,
she is too interested in watching Brutus and Pollux to notice me? I hope
so.

Finally, Pollux has received his allotted number of strokes and his ordeal
is over. Sobbing from the pain and humiliation of his caning he is released
and told to take his place among us. I watch as he walks unsteadily towards
us ruefully rubbing his rump in a futile effort to ease his pain. We move
apart and allow him to stand with us as we await our Master's command to
dismiss and return to our duties.

I eagerly await Master's command. It has been a long, traumatic day for me
and I am emotionally exhausted. I want to return to my stall with Norge and
to lie in his strong embrace as I pour out my heart to him. I need for him
to hold me tight and to ease away my fears. I just want to fall asleep
wrapped in his powerful arms. I am so tired and all I want to do is to
sleep beside him. .

"RAFE! STEP FORWARD!"

Master's command to me is unexpected and I'm momentarily thrown into
confusion. But then I regain my composure and hurry forward and kneel at
his feet. Apprehensively, I wait on his words.

"Rafe, you disappointed me today. Your behaviour was mixed to say the
least. Some of it was good and some of it was bad. You disappointed me on
three counts, boy. Can you tell me what they were?"

"No Master, I am sorry Master!" This is all I can manage to answer from my
fear and confusion.  What have I done to anger my Master?

"Think boy, Think on it."

Again I'm confused. My Master now tells me to think yet just a short time
ago Major Swanston told me slaves aren't meant to think. But my Master has
told me to think and I must obey. Quickly, I think back on the day's events
in an effort to recall the reasons for Master's displeasure. He expects an
answer and I must find one.

"The umbrella, Master? Was it the umbrella?"

"Indeed it was, Rafe. That's one aspect of your disappointing behaviour. As
we were leaving the dealer's I had to instruct you to fetch the umbrella to
shade me. I shouldn't have had to do that. You should have anticipated that
and not wait until you were instructed to do so. A slave needs to keep his
wits about him at all times. Instinctively, a slave should know his
master's needs or requirements.  Today you failed that test."

"I'm sorry, Master." As I stammer out my apology, I'm consumed by a new
fear. Am I to be punished?

"Can you tell me what your other offences were, Rafe?"

"No Master!" I answer truthfully and I now begin to tremble. I have
displeased my Master and I don't know how or why. But I know there'll be a
price to pay for that.

"Well then, let me enlighten you, boy.  Today you hesitated to obey a
legitimate instruction given to you by a free man. When Mr Schuster
instructed you to clean up your mess you hesitated and looked to me for
guidance. Personally, I detest the creature but I had placed you under his
control and therefore you were subject to his direction. He gave you an
instruction and you hesitated. If you recall I had to command you to do as
Mr Schuster wanted. My personal dislike of Mr Schuster is immaterial; he is
a free man and you are a slave and you should have obeyed him. You must
understand that a slave is subject to obedience at all times. Do I make
myself clear?"

"Yes Master!" Now I am truly afraid.

"And last but not least, you wrongly assumed that my refusal to allow you
to pleasure Mr Schuster was made out of consideration for you. Nothing
could be further from the truth. I did so because it was what I
wanted. Your feelings played no part in my decision and you should know a
slave never makes assumptions. And I didn't appreciate your expressions of
gratitude at sparing you. You added to my displeasure by telling me that
you didn't want to suck his cock. That was grossly impertinent of you. You
had no say in the matter. If I'd wanted you to suck his cock then you'd
have done so. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"Yes Master. I'm sorry Master."

"These were serious breaches in your behaviour, Rafe and I can't allow them
to go unpunished. Each of the three is deserving of five strokes of the
cane."

The awful realisation that I'm to receive fifteen strokes of the cane
panics me. I lose my composure and begin to plead for leniency.

"Please Master! Don't cane me Master? I'm so sorry Master. Pleaseeeee!"

Master ignores my pleas and continues.

"However Rafe, I did say there were some good elements in your behaviour
today. I was particularly impressed with your civility to the three young
gentlemen I invited to watch your appraisal. I have to say I was impressed
by your agreeable attitude towards them. And later your politeness in
answering the questions of my lawyer, Mr Barrow did you credit. I was very
pleased with you and they are deserving of a reward."

I sigh with relief. My Master tells me I'm to be rewarded for my agreeable
behaviour. Perhaps I'll escape the caning. Desperately, I hope so and
silently I pray for leniency.

"Rafe, your good behaviour mitigates your bad behaviour somewhat and it'll
be rewarded. For each of your three misdemeanours you'll receive five
strokes of the cane but for each of the two instances of good behaviour
you'll receive a remission of two strokes. Do you understand, Rafe? Can you
work out the mathematics and tell me what your punishment will be?"

My shocked mind has already done the sums and I have worked out that I am
to receive eleven strokes of the cane rather than fifteen and I tell my
Master this. It's a small reprieve it's true but never-the-less it's a
welcome one. But I'd hoped for a bigger reward - no caning at all. My
spirits quail at the thought that once more I'm to be caned by Brutus and I
plead in vain with my Master to spare me. He ignores my tearful begging.

"So Rafe, go and place yourself on the bench so that Ben can fasten you
down ready for Brutus. And as Brutus canes you, I want you to think of this
caning as a both a punishment for bad attitudes and a reward for good
ones. I want you to reflect on this and at some time I'll question you
about the conclusions you come to. So think hard, Rafe."

Futilely, I continue to plead for mercy. But my Master has given his
judgement in front of the household slaves and there can lessening of my
punishment. For him to do so would amount to a loss of face in front of his
slaves and it is inconceivable that any self-respecting master would do
this. I now accept the inevitability of my fate. And I think on my Master's
justice. I am to be punished for my bad behaviour with fifteen strokes of
the cane and rewarded for my good attitudes by the lessening of this number
to eleven. This will serve as food for thought as I am caned.

Trembling, I stand and walk slowly towards the whipping bench where a
sadistically grinning Brutus waits for me as he swishes his cane through
the air. My reluctance is obvious and I'm admonished by my Master.

"Hurry it up Rafe! Stop dawdling! It's getting late and I'm sure Major
Swanston wants to return home for his supper."
                                          >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>


FOREWARNED IS TO BE PREPARED:

Sleep eludes me. This evening's caning has added to my previous two canings
and intensified my suffering.

As I lay in Norge's arms, he questions me about all that had happened to me
as I was appraised by Lionel Schuster. At first my shame saw me holding
back on all the sordid details of what I'd been subjected to. But he
insists I tell him everything and so I tell him of how Master had invited
my three former friends to join him and watch as I was crudely examined by
the repulsive slave dealer. I tell him of their taunts and jibes to me and
how humiliating this had been.

He listens patiently to my tale of woe and allows me to finish. Then he
tells me -not for the first time - that humiliation is now a part of my
life and that I need to accept it as the natural lot of a slave. He goes on
to say all slaves experience humiliation on a daily basis and I will be no
different to any other of our Master's slaves.

Then almost as a reproach he asks me.

"Have you forgotten the shame and humiliation that I suffered when I became
your slave?"

As Norge's Master, I never given much thought to his feelings. After all
why should I? He was only a slave. Now his words take on new meanings. He
is reminding me of his own humiliation and pain and it's what he's not
saying that cuts deep and shames me. Succinctly, he is reminding me that it
was I who humiliated him.

I draw him closer to me and whisper.

"Oh Norge! I am so sorry."

My words are simple but they are heartfelt and full of meaning.

Norge questions me about my punishments - what had I done to deserve them?
I tell him truthfully about the reasons behind them. He listens and draws
on his own experience as a slave to answer them.

"Rafe, what you did was wrong. Our Master was right to punish you." He
gives an exasperated sigh and continues. "Rafe, what have I been telling
you over these past few nights. You're now a slave and you have to start
thinking and acting as one or your road will be a hard and difficult
one. Have you been listening to what I said to you?"

"Yes Norge I have been listening to what you tell me it's just that when
I'm given an order I panic and forget what to do."

"Well you'll need to do better than that, Rafe or you're facing constant
punishment. Rafe, today you broke three fundamental rules governing a
slave's behaviour. You hesitated in carrying out an order given to you by a
free man, you spoke out of turn and finally you didn't have your wits about
you.  Your master shouldn't have needed to remind you to protect him with
the umbrella. He'd given you that task to do earlier and it was an ongoing
duty. You should have worked that out for yourself."

"I know, Norge. I just didn't think."

"Well you'll need to think.  Failure to do so will cost you dearly. If you
don't then you'll have a permanent pain in the ass. Rafe, our masters don't
credit their slaves with much intelligence - they see us as dumb
beasts. Yet they expect us to be alert enough to anticipate their every
need and without them directing us. You have to learn that - and quickly."

"I'll do my best, Norge. I'll try to think."

"Rafe you're taxing my patience. Don't try -DO IT! Trying won't be good
enough for your master.  Promise me you will do better, Rafe?"

"I will, Norge. I promise."

I'm not sure that Norge is completely convinced by my promise but I will
try to remember in future and not give my master any more grounds for
complaint. And if I need an incentive to ensure that I don't then my latest
caning provides me with one.

I snuggle closer to Norge and close my eyes in an effort to sleep. But the
dull throbbing ache and the occasional searing pain in my ass make it
difficult for me to settle down. Norge has suddenly gone quiet and I assume
he is sleeping. But he isn't; he is wide awake and he looks troubled. I
want to share his concerns - most likely they are about me - and I ask what
is troubling him.

He doesn't answer immediately. Then he sighs and asks me.

"Rafe, you do know that our master plans to send you out to "La Foret" for
six months don't you? Do you have any idea what it'll be like for you at
the plantation?"

I do know - I had heard my master mention this several times -but I'd
dismissed this from my mind. I neither wanted to know about it nor to even
think about it. It was as though not doing so would make it go away and all
would be well with me. But I know this isn't so and inwardly I am
terrified. As the former owner of La Foret, I know more than any other what
awaits me there.

I do know about the degrading nakedness, the long days of backbreaking
labour, the squalor of the slave stables and the bland uninspiring diet of
the plantation's slaves. I do know about the soul- destroying, repetitious
toiling on the waterwheels and the pumps where hapless slaves are whipped
in a Sisyphean effort to keep the life giving water flowing through to the
growing crops.

Countless times, as the master, I had watched as my tormented slaves, yoked
in pairs, strained to pull their ploughs through the hard, resisting
earth. And how often had I pulled Norge to the side of a track and waited
as the heavily laden, flat topped, drays hauled by their teams of twenty,
heavy duty draft slaves lumbered by? Too numerous to remember and I had
remained impassive to their suffering.

I sat in the shade of my trap and watched as these slaves, bent almost
double under their heavy wooden yokes plodded past in animal like
docility. I marvelled as their strong, muscular bodies strained into their
leather harness to keep the drays moving forward. I listened to their
rasping breathing and their loud grunts and farting as they groaned under
their impossibly heavy loads.  I'd turned a deaf ear to the loud abusive
shouting of their slave-drivers and the sinister hiss of whips whistling
over their heads. And I'd been left unaffected by the loud "thwack" as
these whips striped their backs.

Now to my shame, I think of my former attitude towards them. I'd always
been disgusted by their smell and the swarms of stinging, tormenting
insects which covered their unwashed, sweat soaked bodies feeding off their
accumulated filth. All this further served to re-enforce my prejudice
against them; in my opinion they were mere beasts-of -burden. And always,
I'd wrinkled my nose in disgust at their foul stench.

So what is the answer to Norge's question? Yes I do know; even though I
choose not to think about it and I'm terribly afraid.

But what terrifies me the most are the overseers. These are men completely
without mercy or pity.  And they are all black.

This is in keeping with the thinking of most large slave-holders. These
days, it's very rare to see a white overseer. Black overseers have a
fearsome reputation for strictly controlling the slaves under their
supervision and they are past masters at squeezing out the maximum amount
of effort from their predominately white charges.

My grandfather had recognised their talents many years ago and had
exclusively employed black overseers from long before I was born. He'd
always had a high regard for his black overseers and had been scrupulously
honest in all his dealings with them and he'd also generously rewarded them
for their efforts on his behalf. He'd had genuine affection for his black
overseers and they had returned his affection with their dedication and
loyalty. There had always been a deep, mutual respect and trust between
them and I had continued with my grandfather's tradition after his death.

Grandfather once told me that black men are naturally gifted and born to be
overseers and controllers of white slaves. He said there is an indefinable
quality in the black psyche that pre-ordains them for these roles. They
just know they are superior to their white charges and so they have no
qualms in strictly controlling a slave - especially if that slave happens
to be white. And of course I am both white and a slave.

Currently, the head overseer is Claymore Jackson and he was appointed to
the position some twenty- odd years ago by my grandfather. Very early on
he'd assembled a team of highly competent overseers and he trained them in
his methods. He'd set the rules governing the efficient control of my
grandfather's slaves and they continue until today. They were highly
effective then and they remain so today. Claymore wisely ensures there is
an ongoing training programme of slave management for his overseers and
that they are kept up to date in all the modern techniques of slave
handling.

Another long standing tradition instituted by Claymore is an apprenticeship
programme for young blacks who are trained to become fully fledged
overseers after a few year training at La Foret and other plantations.

Claymore was always community minded and years ago it had worried him that
some young blacks were drifting aimlessly within their community. He'd
mentioned this to my grandfather - himself very community minded and a
public benefactor - and between them they hit upon the idea of training
black youths to become slave overseers. My grandfather used his prestige
and poured a lot of effort and money into establishing this apprenticeship
programme. Now all plantations participate in the scheme and have a yearly
commitment to recruit and train a number of seventeen to eighteen year old
black youths as future overseers.

My grandfather insisted that the programme be named in honour its
instigator and today it known far and wide as the "Claymore Jackson
Apprenticeship Programme". The programme has been enormously successful
over the years and Claymore has received many accolades because of it and
not least because there now is a continuous supply of eager,
well-qualified, young black overseers available to the plantation owners.

La Foret had always played its part in the scheme and when I became master
I had enthusiastically supported Claymore in its application. Only a few
weeks ago, I'd sat with Claymore as he'd interviewed a seventeen year old
prior to granting him an apprenticeship with us at the end of the school
year.  I must say I'd been impressed by the lad - his name was Conn - and
he seemed to have the right attributes for the job. His attitude was
positive, he was self-assured and full of confidence and it soon became
obvious that he is a natural overseer. I smiled as I thought that soon, my
slaves would be addressing this young, black over lord as Sir Conn - as a
mark of respect, all black overseers are called sir by the slaves under
their control.

I'd always taken an interest in La Foret's apprentices and I had keenly
followed their progress. These young lads come to the programme as
inexperienced and unsure of what is expected of them but without exception
they show great enthusiasm and a willingness to learn. It was pleasing to
see their confidence grow daily and I always had a sense of satisfaction in
seeing them reach their full potential and finally graduate as overseers of
my slaves.

During their training, Claymore always couples an apprentice with the more
senior overseers on a rotating roster system where the apprentice is
exposed to the different methods of the individual overseers. And of course
one of the first things an apprentice must learn is proper slave
control. He must be taught to handle a whip and master its use before he is
given one of his own. .

This is always a proud moment for an apprentice. The receiving of his own
whip is a sign that he is making headway - it is a sign of his authority -
and there is a ritual that has developed around its presentation. I always
made it a point to be there- I felt the apprentice deserved my recognition
- and sometimes Claymore would ask me to make the presentation. But mostly
I preferred that he do it; the scheme was his brainchild and he deserved
the credit.

The apprentice is expected to 'bloody' his new whip by flogging a miscreant
slave. Of course there is never any shortage of subjects for
this. Somewhere on the plantation at any time there is a slave deserving of
punishment. The older overseers watch and cheer as the apprentice applies
his newly acquired whip to the slave's back. Indeed I know they even place
bets on how many strokes of the whip it'll take before the slave breaks and
pleads for leniency. When the slave first vocalises his pain during his
flogging there is loud cheering from the overseers but for me personally it
was always a delight to see the proud apprentice grinning so broadly.

After my grandfather's death, I'd discussed with Claymore the possibility
of increasing the plantation's output. The plantation was highly profitable
but I wasn't prepared to let it rest on its laurels. To my mind there
should be an ongoing yearly increase in productivity and profits. I asked
Claymore if the slaves were working at full capacity. His answer surprised
me. He said yes but it's always possible to squeeze just a bit more out of
them. When I asked how, he suggested one way would be to extend the slaves'
workday by starting earlier in the morning and finishing later in the
evening.

I mentioned an idea that had been formulating in my mind and asked for his
opinion. My idea was for a bonus incentive scheme for the overseers; for
every percentage point increase in productivity I would pay them a bonus. I
asked Claymore if this would work and he was enthusiastic in his reply. He
said his overseers would welcome my plan that gave them more money and I
could be assured that any targets I set would be reached. I asked him how
this would be achieved and he laughed.

"Why with the whip, Lucien." He'd called me by my given name since my
childhood.  "You can achieve anything from a slave with the judicious use
of the whip."

We agreed to push ahead with the plan and I left it with Claymore to
implement. On my last enquiry about the scheme, he assured me he'd
implemented it and it was enthusiastically endorsed by the overseers.

So in answer to Norge's question, I do know what to expect when I'm sent
out to La Foret. The only other question in my mind is how I - the former
master - will be received now that I am a slave. And I answer his question.

"Norge, yes I do know what conditions are like out at La Foret." And there
is just a touch of irony in my voice as I add.  "After all, as the previous
master many of the existing conditions were put in place by me and now I
must live and work with them."

"Rafe, knowing is one thing but experiencing it is quite another. You know
from your observations as the former master what is expected of you. But do
you have any comprehension of the pain and suffering that is ahead of you?
I don't think you do. And you need to prepare your mind for that. And
remember -you'll be on your own. I won't be there with you. "

Norge's words are sobering and I fall into silence as I allow them to sink
in. I do know what will be expected of me. But he is right; I have no idea
of what it is like to work fully as a slave, True, I have chopped firewood
and cut my Master's lawns but these are child's play when compared to the
harsh working environment of a plantation slave. I have never worked from
dawn till dusk bent double labouring in the fields and I have never felt a
whip on my body. Momentarily, I wonder about the whip. Inevitably, I will
taste the lash as the black overseers drive me to work harder in my
Master's interests. But how will it feel? Will its pain be as intense as
that of the cane? So fiery is the residual pain in my ass that I find this
hard to imagine. Nevertheless, I ask Norge if the whip is as painful as the
cane.

"Rafe, you have no idea," Norge's answer has a bitter edge to it, "at how
painful a whip really is. I know you think the cane is painful. Well it is
- but its pain is nothing when compared to that of the whip. Rafe, so far
what you have received is light punishment similar to that of a parent
chastising a naughty child. But the whip is different. It too is meant to
punish you but its primary purpose is to make you work harder and faster
and to force you to draw on reserves of strength you don't even know you
have. And it works believe me."

"Norge, were you whipped often when you were out at La Foret?"

The anger and exasperation in Norge's voice as he answers tells me my
question is both insensitive and stupid.

"What do you think?" He snaps.

I am chastened by his answer and I lapse into silence.

When I was the master, I had accepted - without a second thought - the
intolerable working conditions for my slaves and the harsh discipline of my
overseers. In my need for increased profits, hadn't I recently put in place
an incentive scheme for my black overseers that sees the slaves working
longer under a harsher, disciplinary regime?  Now, it's with bitter irony
that I realise these same conditions will apply to me when eventually my
Master sends me out to La Foret.

Norge has fallen silent. I now know him well enough to know when he is he
is impatient with me. But I have listened to him; I have read between his
words and I know of his concern for me and at what he sees as my
unpreparedness for my life as a field slave. Hasn't he been trying to
forewarn me of what awaits me at the plantation? He has experienced it at
firsthand and he knows. I sense his concern and I know he is worried for me
and I am touched. I snuggle into his strong, warm nakedness and he draws me
closer to him in a tight embrace. As our bodies touch, our cocks cross
swords and, as if of one mind, both spring to attention.

I want to make amends for my insensitive question about whether he'd been
whipped often and I want to thank Norge for the comfort and support he
gives me. There is only one way available to me and slowly, I move my head
down over his body pausing to playfully tease his nipples and navel with
the tip of my tongue. His body arches and he begins to breathe heavily. He
takes my head between his strong hands and guides it down to his
cock. Gratefully, I take it into the warm, moist embrace of my
mouth. Eagerly, I suckle it and swallow hard.


To be continued.......