Date: Thu, 21 Jul 2011 00:17:55 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: Re: "Changed Circumstances: Chapter 33   Gay Male/Authoritarian

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

Chapter 33
"The Blacksmith's Forge"


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 33: "The Blacksmith's Forge"

Prologue:

Suddenly, the forge has taken on a fearsome aspect. As a lonely boy, I'd
always been fascinated by the activity of the place and had spent much of
my time there watching as my grandfather's blacksmith worked at the anvil.

The blacksmith was a slave and I had been popular with him. Doubtless, this
was because I was Lucien Barrois, the "young Master" and he'd shown me the
respect my exalted birth demanded. He'd worked patiently with me and over
the years he taught me some rudimentary tricks of his trade.  Through him
I'd learned to shoe a horse and to make and repair the simplest of tools.

I've always thought there is something primitive - almost primeval - about
a blacksmith's forge and anvil. The work is basic and requires brute
strength. Yet it demands a degree of skill and artistry that only a good
blacksmith possesses.

In my childish imagination, I'd seen our forge as the heavenly realm of
Thor, the Nordic god of thunder and the anvil as the place where he'd
hammered out his lightning bolts. Lately, as I think of Norge, I'm reminded
of these memories. Just a short time ago - on his twenty-third birthday in
fact - he'd told me his real name was Thorvald. But more commonly, his
family and closest friends called him by the familiar Thor.

In my ignorance and thoughtlessness, I had stripped him of this birth name
which is so full of Nordic poetic beauty and given him the more prosaic one
of Norge. Today, this is a source of shame for me.

I had enjoyed working in the forge and in my teenage years, I would
randomly visit there, strip to the waist and work alongside the blacksmith
and his two young slave assistants. In my youthful exuberance, I would pace
my efforts to those of the assistants but there was one major difference
between us. If they made a mistake the blacksmith would take his formidable
strap to their asses.  However, mine was sacrosanct and out of bounds to
his chastisement.

Throughout my teen years, I enjoyed the forge and the physical activity it
afforded me. I relished the hard effort of good honest labour and a healthy
sweating but if I am truthful with myself it was something other than this
that enticed me back time and again. This was the sheer eroticism of the
place.

The blacksmith and his assistant slaves were naturally naked and how I
envied them their comfortable nakedness in their hot working environment. I
wished I too could be as naked as they were.  But, I was free and I had to
keep my pants on and content myself with working shirtless. But I never
tired of looking at their sweat soaked bodies liberally smeared with the
grime of their work.

The charcoals glowed red-hot on the hearth piercing the gloom of the forge
and bathing the bodies of the blacksmith and his helpers in a reddish
glow. It was so erotic to watch the play of their powerful muscles under
the shiny, red gleam of their sweatiness and it was just as well that I
wore trousers for my cock would have betrayed my real interest in them.

Yes, I loved the forge and I revelled in the hard physical exercise it
afforded me. I was stirred by the erotic spectacle of the three, naked
slaves working at the hearth and the anvil. In my teenage years, I was
intoxicated by the sights, the sounds and the smell of the place. I loved
the warm glow of the hearth, the "whoosh-whoosh" as the bellows were
pumped, the loud sounds of hammering on the anvil and the acrid smell of
red-hot metal as it was plunged into a vat of cold water to cool.

Today, I return to the forge as the slave, Rafe and I view the forge from a
very different perspective. I no longer see it as the warm inviting place
of my boyhood or the powerfully erotic one of my teenage years.

It has lost its charm and assumed a sinister aspect. Now I see it as a
scene from 'Dante's Inferno' where tortured souls, who have abandoned all
hope, wait in terror for some hellish torment to visit them.

I stand alongside Pollux and like him I am wide eyed with terror. In front
of us the handle of our Master's new brand protrudes from the glowing
charcoal on the hearth and we know that soon we are to be branded.

This forge now reminds me of my visit to the forge adjacent to the
courtrooms on the day of my enslavement. I relive the horrors of that day
and I re-imagine the indescribable, red hot pain of my first branding. I
begin to tremble violently and I give way to weeping and even though my
Master isn't yet present I begin to plead.  I want to be spared this
branding but even as cry, I know nothing will save me. My Master has
decided I am to be the first of his slaves to wear the new Maratier brand.

We wait on my Master's and his head overseer's arrivals. But we are under
the firm control of a senior black overseer and the young apprentice, Sir
Conn.

Suddenly, a whip cuts cruelly across my naked ass and I hear Sir Conn's
order to

"Shut the fuck up, you dumb ass slave!"

My yelp is more of surprise than pain and I am shocked into silent. Even
though the young apprentice has a powerful whip arm and I do feel the sting
of his lash it was meant to quieten me and it has the desired effect.

Suddenly and unexpectedly, I lose control of my bladder and humiliatingly I
piss myself. Shamefaced, I now stand in a puddle of my own urine.

Through the rawness of my emotions, I hear Sir Conn and the other overseer
laugh at my very public embarrassment.

And I am also aware that Master Etienne is present and staring at me. I see
the look of contempt on his face and I hear his simple, boyish exclamation
of disgust.

"YUK!!!"

This speaks volumes for how low I have sunk.


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

Tears of sorrow and regret mist my eyes as I watch the major domo, Colton
escort my Master and Claymore Jackson up the front steps of the porch and
through the wide double doors into La Forˆt's grand, colonial mansion.

Sadly, I reflect that once all of this had been mine and just a few weeks
ago, I would've been welcomed by Colton as the Master of the house. And not
for the first time since my enslavement, I think of all I have now
lost. However, standing before my beloved La Forˆt, not as its proud
owner, Lucien Barrois but at as the naked slave, Rafe is the most poignant
of these memories. My sense of loss is made all the more unbearable by the
knowledge that never again will I be permitted to enter into the house
where I'd spent my boyhood with my beloved grandparents. From deep within
my breast a strangled sob wells up and my tears begin to flow.

I can well imagine the sharp intake of my Master's breath as he enters into
his new home for the first time. No doubt, he is left breathless by the
elegance, the splendour and the understated richness of the carefully
chosen furnishings and art treasures which are the hallmarks of my
grandmother's good taste.

When refurbishing the stately house, she eschewed all that was vulgar and
gaudy. She rejected the flamboyance and tastelessness of the "nouveau
riche" and she chose carefully.  The soft pastel colours of the walls
harmonise with the rich floor coverings and elegant drapes to serve as a
suitable backdrop to the red mahogany furniture; each piece of which is a
beautiful work of art in its own right.

My Master can't fail to be impressed by my grandmother's legacy!

But I'm not allowed to wallow in my self-pity. Time is moving on and Pollux
and I have to be prepared for our brandings. The black overseer, left in
charge of Pollux and me by Claymore is anxious to move us on. He uncurls
his whip and snaps it at us without making contact with our bodies. This is
a gesture meant to gain our attention and he now drives us away from the
house and out through the gardens towards the utilitarian area of the
plantation where all the ancillary buildings such as the grist-mills,
storage and packing sheds and the stables where the slaves are housed
overnight are located. And of course the forge!

Wisely my ancestor, Jean-Marc de Barrois had placed this area of the
plantation far from the house and gardens which are the private preserve of
family. He'd been anxious that nothing intrude upon the peace and harmony
of his home and he had no wish to be confronted with the ugly realities of
the slavery upon which his prosperity depended. So he'd chosen a spot that
is "out of sight and out of mind" and with great foresight he'd planted a
thick belt of trees around the whole area to discreetly screen it from his
view.

Two centuries on, those trees have now reached majestic proportions and
they provide a pleasant vista from the porch and gardens of the distant
mansion. From there, it is very easy to forget the existence of the
wretched slaves who toil ceaselessly to enrich the occupants of that house.

Yet that isn't quite true. Occasionally, at the height of the summer heat
and with the winds blowing from a particular direction, they carry upon
them the faint, sickly-sweet, animal-like smell that one always associates
with a large body of slaves. When this happens - and fortunately these
occasions are rare - it is necessary to close the windows and doors of the
house to shut out the noisome odour.

Pollux and I walk ahead of our overseer. He drives us towards this area by
constantly snapping his whip at our heels in much the same way as a drover
urges a mob of cattle onwards.

And Sir Conn and Master Etienne walk towards the forge some distance ahead
of us with the outline of their bodies broken up by the shimmering, watery,
heat haze.

It takes us perhaps fifteen minutes to walk from the house to the work
area. I know from experience it would take a pony and trap half this time -
or even less - depending on how hard the pony is driven. And even though
the sting has gone out of the mid-afternoon sun, Pollux and I are
perspiring freely. Although how much of this can be attributed to the day's
heat or our mounting fear of the branding iron it is hard to say. But our
sweat combines with the road dust on our bodies and coats us in a thin
patina of grime and I look forward to my hosing down.

There are no ablution blocks as such for the slaves. However, there are a
number of concrete slabs, each capable of holding twenty or so slaves
standing upright, and each is equipped with faucets and hoses where the
slaves are hosed down and cleaned as required. And I assume Pollux and I
are being taken to one of these for our hosing down.

We pass through the belt of screening trees into the compound. This is
really the working hub of La Forˆt and even though I have been here
countless times, I look around and see things very differently. Today, I
see everything through the eyes of a newly arrived slave.

The place is a hive of noisy, frenetic activity and everywhere I look there
are slaves labouring under the direction and whips of their black
overseers. The lime washed, stone buildings gleam brilliantly white in the
sun's glare and they are grouped around the four sides of a central square
devoid of any shade. Ominously, standing in the middle of this square are
the pillars of authority and the instruments of punishment; the stocks and
pillories for holding the minor offender and the unwilling and the whipping
posts and frames for the recalcitrant and the troublemaker among the slave
population. In the past, I'd barely noticed them. Today, they take on a
fearsome aspect and I am terrified.

Dominating this square are the two mills and their associated packaging and
storage sheds and with harvesting now moving into full swing these are
being made ready. Inside the two mills, slaves are hard at work either
replacing timber braces on the massive treadmills or greasing the mechanism
of the huge grinding stones.

I remember Claymore telling my Master he'll use me on one of the treadmills
and I shudder at the thought. I have witnessed these in operation many
times in the past on my tours of inspection and I know what confronts me. I
will be just one of twenty slaves who'll be chained, hand and feet, in
place and made to walk endlessly on the one spot and continually urged to
maintain the wheel's constant speed by an overseer's lash.

When operational, the mills are hot and the slaves sweat profusely. And to
add to their misery, the air within the mills is thick with pollen and fine
dust particles which coat their bodies, irritate their eyes, clog their
nostrils and torment their parched throats. The work is arduous,
never-ending and soul-destroying. In the past, I have watched unmoved as
these pitiful wretches were reduced to mindless, plodding
beasts-of-burden. Soon, I am to share their fate.

And fronting onto the square are the slave barracks or stables where the
slaves spend their nights. Fortress like in their construction, it is a
proud boast that no slave has ever escaped from their grim interiors once
the overseers have locked the doors for the night.

Unlike the mills and their ancillary sheds which have been rebuilt several
times over the intervening years, the stables are the original ones built
by Jean-Marc de Barrois two centuries ago.

Because of their venerable age, they are deemed to be of great cultural and
historical significance and placed on the National Heritage Register for
preservation and conservation.  This happened back in my grandfather's day
and had made him very proud. Over the years, he'd spent a considerable
amount of money in maintaining them and after his death I had continued
with the practice.

As La Foret's owner I was always concerned with their outward appearance
but never with their interiors. Indeed, I can't recall when I last entered
into them. The squalor and stench of their interiors had always repulsed
me.

And tucked away in a corner of the square, between one of the mills and a
stable, is the forge.

We pass by and I'm close enough to see that Sir Conn is talking to the
blacksmith relaying Claymore Jackson's instructions onto him. Then I see
him hand something to the blacksmith; it is the branding iron. The
blacksmith examines it minutely before walking to the hearth and burying
its head deep within the bed of hot coals. He instructs one of his
assistants to pump the bellows to fan the dull red embers into a glowing,
bright red heat. It is a new, unused branding iron and needs to be well
heated before it can be used for the first time.

We move out of the square to the rear of the slave stables. This is an area
I'd always considered unsavoury and seldom visited. This is where the
ablution slabs and the sanitation pits are located and the air is offensive
to the nostrils. This isn't surprising when you consider the large number
of slaves who use both the washing slabs and the pits.

Routinely every morning the black overseers drive their charges to the
sanitation pits to attend to the most basic of their bodily needs;
theoretically this eliminates the need for relief breaks as they work .And
this is repeated just before the slaves are locked away in their stables
for the night in the hope that they won't spoil their sleeping quarters. At
least this is the theory which, more often than not, differs in practice.

I'd been fastidious in maintaining a small degree of cleanliness among my
slaves. I had required they be hosed down periodically to remove the grime,
the dust and the mud of their labours from their bodies. Primarily, I did
this to minimise their smell; an unwashed slave tends to "stink to high
heaven". The long hours spent toiling in the fields meant they sweated a
lot and of course any unscheduled calls of nature during working hours were
taken in situ as the slave worked. The rhythm of the work pattern mustn't
be broken - overseers made no concessions for a slave's needs; therefore
should a slave need to urinate or defecate, he just pissed or shat as he
worked. It was imperative that he stay in line and never break step with
his fellows.

I had always admired Claymore Jackson his orderly mind. Appearances are
important to him and the one thing that always angers him is an unsightly
line of slaves straggling across a field - like a "donkey's breakfast" - is
how he'd once described this to me. He insists his overseers ensure their
charges stay abreast of one another as they worked. He demands uniformity
and anything other than this offends him.

More than once he has told me his reasons for this and I know from his
comments that ascetics play an important part in his thinking. To his mind
an orderly line of slaves working abreast of one another shows good
management and control whereas slaves working higgledy-piggledy across a
field suggests indifference and, even worse, a lack of discipline.  And
Claymore will never accept either from his overseers or the slaves under
his charge.

He'd added that having the slaves work line abreast with one another
ensures they all work at the same pace, that it maximises their effort and
is the most efficient use of their labour. And this makes the overseers
task that much easier. They - and not the slaves - set the pace of the
labour and they ensure it is maintained with their whips. A slave working
in a straight line with his fellows knows he must keep up with them and not
fall behind or he'll suffer the painful consequences of the overseers'
whips.

And Claymore is correct; I couldn't argue with his sound logic. A gang of
slaves, all working together as a single unit and moving forward in a
straight line is more uniform and pleasing to the eye than a gang of slaves
scattered all over a field.

The overseer directs Pollux and me onto one of the ablution slabs and
orders us to place our hands on top of our heads. Fearfully, we stand and
wait as he adjusts a nozzle on the end of a hose and turns on a faucet. We
catch our breath as we are blasted with a stream of icy cold water powerful
enough to knock us off our feet.

Futilely, we scramble to regain our footing but each time our efforts are
thwarted as, once more, we are hit with a solid stream of water from the
hose and sent sprawling to the ground.  The overseer is playing with us and
the sound of his scornful laughter rings in my ears. Then, as suddenly as
it had begun, the hose is turned off, we are ordered to our feet and
despite the day's heat, we stand shivering as we drip dry.

We dry quickly in the sun's rays and soon we are ready to be taken to the
forge.

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

As we enter into the blacksmith's workshop, I am greeted with the hot blast
from the forge.  My gaze sweeps around the interior of the forge taking
note of everything. It's remarkable how the human eye can absorb so much
detail in a very short time. Even more remarkable is how much quicker the
brain can process what the eyes sees.

The first person I notice is the blacksmith. He is white and of course he
is a slave, and as such, he is naked and collared. But as the blacksmith -
and a highly skilled one - he'd always enjoyed a special standing at La
Foret. Uniquely, my grandfather had given him a name, "smithy", by which he
is known to both slaves and overseers. But I often thought it wasn't so
much a name as a designation of what he did. But as Lucien, I'd also called
him "smithy" like my grandfather.

As you would expect "smithy" is a tall, powerfully built man with a barrel
chest and an imposing physique. Long years of hammering at the anvil have
given his arms and legs the hardness of granite. I'm not sure of his age -
nobody bothers with a slave's age although it would be recorded somewhere
in the plantation's records - but I would estimate it as the
early-fifties. To be completely honest, in the past, I'd never considered
his age. His closely cropped black hair is peppered with white but this
doesn't detract from the impressiveness of his commanding stature. He is
still a very imposing slave and I would think his presence on the auction
block would bring strong bidding. His skills as a blacksmith add
considerably to his value.

He looks at me and despite his obvious recognition of me he ignores me;
after all I am just another new slave who has been brought to him for
collaring and branding.

His two assistant slaves are busy in the background. One sweats profusely
as he vigorously pumps the bellows fanning the embers on the hearth to a
bright, red-hot intensity.  It is then that I notice the handle of the
branding iron protruding from the bed of flickering embers.  And buried
deep in the glowing red charcoal, the head of the iron is now being heated
to a bright orange-red for use on Pollux and me. At the sight of the iron
my eyes open wide with terror and my body trembles uncontrollably. And my
belly turns to water as I anticipate the hellish pain of my Master's new
brand searing itself into both my flesh and my consciousness.

It is said a slave never forgets the touch of the branding iron and that it
is forever fixed in his mind. I can vouchsafe for this and though it is
some weeks since my first branding at the courts, I have relived the terror
and the indescribable agony of that awful event every day.  My blistered
flesh has healed and the large, capital letter "S" for slave is now crisply
outlined on my left flank. However, my memory still festers with the pain
I'd experienced and it is doubtful if that scab will ever heal.

The other slave works at a bench with his back to me. I can't see what he
is doing but I see the strong muscles of his back at play as he hammers
away at something metallic.

These two, young slaves, because of their strong physiques, had been chosen
personally by my grandfather two years ago to serve as apprentices to
"smithy". Grandfather was very foresighted and of course, he never missed
an opportunity to make money from his slaves.

Early on he'd recognised that a qualified, blacksmith slave is a rare
commodity and commanded a high price at auction. So he'd instituted a
special programme to train young slaves in the skills of the forge and all
other aspects of the blacksmith's trade. This training lasts approximately
two years and these two latest graduates are nearing the end of their time
in the forge. They are ready for sale and had I still been the Master of La
Forˆt, they would have been long sold and their replacements now working
with "smithy".

My fall from grace has delayed their sale. They fall under Claymore's
jurisdiction and he has decided to leave them working with "smithy" until
he has the opportunity to discuss their futures with the new owner of La
Forˆt. Claymore had been scrupulously honest in all his dealings with
both my grandfather and me and he now extends this honesty to Guy Maratier.
However, he will discuss the two slaves with his new employer within the
coming days and strongly recommend they be sold and replaced with two new
apprentices. In fact, he has already chosen their replacements.

On entering the forge, Sir Conn moves quickly to assist the senior overseer
in taking charge of us. I am amazed at the poise and self-assurance of the
young apprentice overseer, He has only been at the plantation for several
weeks and yet his bearing is both commanding and intimating. Claymore and I
had chosen well in giving him a position as a trainee overseer.  And the
irony of this isn't lost on me.

His approach to Pollux and I is businesslike and leaves us in no doubt that
he in charge of us.  As Lucien, I would have seen him as impossibly
opinionated and his cockiness would have angered me. And as Lucien, I would
have moved very quickly to put him in his place.

But I'm not Lucien. I am the slave, Rafe and I am terrified of
him. Contemptuously, he flicks his whip at our asses and orders us to
assume the full display position. Pollux obviously shares my fear of Sir
Conn and we hasten to obey.

And watching the young overseer with boyish admiration is the "young
Master", Etienne. In the coming days, this admiration will quickly turn to
a form of hero worship as Master Etienne trails behind Sir Conn almost as a
second shadow.

At first, Sir Conn will resent the "young Master's" continuing presence as
he goes about his duties and he will do all he can to discourage it. But a
word from the wise from Claymore Jackson will convince him
otherwise. Claymore Jackson - who has developed a fondness for his
promising new apprentice - will tell him that the future of La Forˆt
obviously lies with Guy Maratier's son and heir and that Conn, in his
long-term interests, would do well to cultivate a close personal
relationship with Etienne. He'll reminds Conn that there isn't that much
difference in their ages and if he plays his cards right - well who knows?

He'll tell Conn that within a few years he hopes to retire to a small rural
holding he owns - courtesy of the generosity of the former Barrois family -
and to work it with a small herd of white slaves. Just to keep his hand in-
so to speak.

And with Master Etienne on his side, Conn could very well be his successor.

Pollux and I are ignored as the two overseers talk together and "smithy"
and his assistants go about their duties. I watch as "smithy" withdraws the
branding iron from its bed of red hot coals and checks it to see if it is
up to temperature. The brand glows a brilliant orange-red against the dark
backdrop of the forge's walls and I am overcome with fear. My knees sag
under the trembling weight of my body and I am on the verge of
collapse. Then I hear myself weeping and I vaguely hear my disjointed pleas
to be spared the iron. Pollux takes his cue from me and his wails join with
mine to echo within the closed confines of the blacksmith's workshop.

Suddenly, a whip cuts cruelly across my naked ass and I hear Sir Conn's
order to

"Shut the fuck up, you dumb ass slave!"

The unexpectedness of this shocks me into silence and my ass smarts from
the force of the young overseer's whip and the power of his whip arm.

Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, I lose control of my bladder and
humiliatingly I piss myself.  Shamefaced, I now stand in a puddle of my own
urine.

I hear Sir Conn and the other overseer laugh at my very public
embarrassment and one of them - I don't know who - comments.

"It's hard to imagine that he was once the high and mighty Lucien
Barrois. Now, he stands as a naked slave and pisses from fear just like a
filthy, farm animal."

The salty tears of my humiliation sting my skin as I stand humiliated and
degraded. Pollux stands beside me and yet I am so alone. How I wish Norge
was here to give me the strength and courage to endure what I must. But he
isn't here and I am alone.

Then unexpectedly, "smithy" is in front of me. Gently, he strokes my upper
arm to comfort me and he tries to allay my panic by soothingly whispering.

"Steady boy! Take a deep breath, calm down and take it steady!"

This is an act of kindness and a show of compassion from one slave to
another. He knows my pain and my suffering and as I look into his face I
see sympathy for my plight mirrored in his eyes. As he looks at me, does he
have memories of the Lucien Barrois who'd spent so many happy hours in his
forge as a boy, a teenager and a young man? Somehow his recognition of me
calms my frayed nerves and I quieten down.

Now, in my silence, I hear distant voices approaching the workshop. As they
grow louder and more distinct, I recognise them as the voices of my Master
and Claymore Jackson. Then I hear a third voice.  It is that of the major
domo, Colton. He has asked my Master's permission to be present as I am
branded. And my Master has graciously consented.


To be continued.....