Date: Wed, 3 Aug 2011 02:38:03 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 35  Gay Male/Authoritarian

"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES"
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 35: "Norge meets an Old Friend"


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 35: "Norge meets an Old Friend"

Norge:

Tonight, I am tired to the point of total exhaustion. Today, I have been
taxed both physically and emotionally.

I am ready to sleep and I move my body in closer to Jake who stirs slightly
as I adjust the front of my body into the contours of his back. I wrap him
in my arms and draw comfort from the warm hardness of his body. Almost as
though it has a will of its own, my cock seeks to lodge itself in the warm
moistness of his ass crack. Jake obviously feels it pulsating heat and
stirs to push back closer into me.  Then, with a soft sigh of contentment,
he settles into a deep sleep. I can feel the steady beat of his strong
heart and the rhythmic pattern of his breathing through my chest and
belly. These sooth me and I too am contented.

I feel great affection for Jake and as I served as a pony to both Lucien
Barrois and Guy Maratier, my thoughts often wandered back to him and La
Foret. He was the only pleasurable memory I have of the miserable six
months I'd spent at the plantation where I was conditioned, trained and
made ready to serve as Lucien Barrois's human pony. At first, we had paired
off for mutual protection against the unwanted advances and the sexual
predations of our more aggressive fellow slaves. Inevitably, our feelings
deepened into a genuine affection for one another and we had become lovers.

During my time away from La Foret, I'd thought often of Jake and pictured
his suffering as he laboured in the fields under the cruel whips of the
plantation's black overseers. Visions of him bent double with his back laid
open by the lash distressed me. I wasn't to know that, shortly after my
return to the city, the chief overseer, Claymore Jackson had chosen Jake to
serve as his personal pony.

Therefore, upon our arrival at the plantation this afternoon, I was
surprised and delighted to see Jake harnessed to the overseer's trap and
tethered in the shade of one of the enormous trees that line the driveway
to La Foret's gracious mansion. I hadn't recognised Jake immediately;
indeed I'd not expected to see him other than as a field slave toiling in a
distant gang as my Master drove me on a familiarisation inspection tour his
new inheritance.

After my exhausting run out from the city, I was hot and fatigued and I was
allowed to stand and cool down as my Master and his son were warmly
welcomed to La Foret by the chief overseer, Claymore Jackson and the black
major domo, Colton.

Peripherally, I was aware of another pony tethered in the shade of a tree
but I was too pre-occupied with my own discomfort to pay him any
attention. However, I noticed he was very fidgety and I assumed he was
being plagued by flies or other insects and was trying to dislodge them. I
understood this; many times I have stood immobilised between the shafts
while these troublesome pests feasted on my own sweat.

A pony is expected behave himself and stand motionless whenever he is
stationary. Friskiness in a pony is frowned upon and is usually rewarded
with a few sharp cuts of the driver's whip across the ass or shoulders. And
it was inevitable that this frisky pony would attract the attention of his
driver.

"Jake! Stand still, damn you! Stop fidgeting or you'll feel my whip on your
ass."

Claymore Jackson's admonishment was said without rancour. In fact there was
almost a tone of affection in his voice; very much as a parent uses on a
naughty child.

This isn't surprising. Most master's quickly establish good working
relationships with their ponies and view them with a degree of fondness not
afforded to their house or work slaves.

I had this pony/driver relationship with my former driver, Lucien Barrois
and slowly my new Master is establishing one with me.

Initially, I resented Lucien and unfairly, I blamed him for all my
woes. However, since his own enslavement, I have re-evaluated our
relationship as former Master and pony and I now know he was a good master.

Certainly, his attitude always reflected the fact that he was the master
and I was his slave but he was never unnecessarily cruel to me. It's true
he demanded much of me as his pony and would use his whip to extract the
very best from me but he never whipped me in anger. He would run me hard
but always, at the end of our drives, he would calm me by soothingly
stroking my arm or chest or playfully patting my ass and tell me I was "a
good pony" or "well done, boy".

There were even the occasional rewards when he allowed me to nuzzle a
slither of apple from the cupped palm of his hand. How I enjoyed the sweet,
juicy taste of my reward after the blandness of my gruel. And how I
savoured the biting tang of the apple as my tongue licked his hand for
every last drop of juice. Unable to ask - I was forbidden to speak and the
bit in my mouth made speech difficult - I would look at him and my eyes
would plead for more. Sometimes, he'd relent and give me a second slither -
but not often. Rewards for a pony shouldn't be overdone else they lose
their effectiveness.

So I was surprised to hear Claymore call his pony 'Jake'. Immediately I
wondered if this could be my Jake. A glance in the pony's direction
confirmed that it was and my heart skipped a beat. Jake had recognised me
as we came up the drive and he'd tried to attract my attention by his
friskiness. As our eyes meet, we both broke into huge smiles of
pleasure. But it is almost impossible to smile with a bit in your mouth and
so our smiles were more in the nature of grimacing.

I was happy to see Jake now served as a pony. Life as a human pony is
infinitely preferable to the horrors of straining and sweating in a gang of
field-slaves. I know for I have experienced both. And sadly, I remembered
this is to be Rafe's and Pollux's fate. Really, I have no great sympathy
for Pollux - his manner grates on me - but I did feel for Rafe. My own
experiences in a field gang and as I underwent my pony training tell me
poor Rafe will be stretched to the limits of his endurance - both
physically and emotionally.

And I won't be here to help him. Doubtlessly, within a day or two, my
Master will return to the city with me and Rafe and I will be parted.

The fact that the parting will be temporary is of poor comfort. I will miss
Rafe sleeping at my side and I will miss his loving ministrations as his
mouth serviced my cock. In our short time together, Rafe and I have become
lovers - of a sort - within the limitations our Master has placed on Rafe's
usage.  Master has declared Rafe's ass is 'out-of-bounds' and it would be
foolhardy of me to challenge his owner's given right to first usage of
it. So frustratingly, I must wait until Guy Maratier 'takes Rafe's
cherry'. How I envy my Master; for Rafe's ass is a sheer delight. I should
know for I have finger tested its tight, warm moistness on many
occasions. But finger-fucking Rafe is a poor substitute for the real thing.

Jake's presence is welcome and goes some way to alleviating my sadness over
Rafe. I wonder - will we have an opportunity to talk. There is so much I
wish to ask Jake. I have so many questions for him.  But whether or not we
are given this opportunity to talk depends on our Master and his overseer.

I watched as Rafe and Pollux were lead away to the blacksmith's workshop by
two black overseers and young Master Etienne. We waited patiently while our
Master and his overseers refreshed themselves indoors before emerging to
drive to the distant forge. Jake and I stayed in step and paced ourselves
with one another as our drivers drove us at a leisurely trot.  But I had an
advantage; Jake's trap had an additional passenger, Colton, the major domo,
who'd expressed a wish to be present as Rafe is collared and branded.

Upon arrival at the forge, Jake and I were tethered alongside one another
and even though we couldn't speak, we were delighted to be in each other's
company. But my pleasure turned to pain when I heard Rafe's pitiful, but
vain pleas to his Master to be spared the branding iron. And his
heartrending scream of pain as the iron seared itself into his flesh tore
at my heart. Tears misted my eyes as I heard his loud sobbing.

 I watched in impotent anger as two, black overseers led Rafe and Pollux to
the slave stables where they were to rest and recover overnight before
being put to work next morning. My anger increased as I saw an arrogant,
young, black overseer impatiently put his whip to Rafe's ass and abuse him.

"Move yo'self, dumbass!"

I listened as my Master and his chief overseer discussed Rafe's immediate
future. This discussion was a mixed blessing for Rafe. The overseer told my
Master Rafe's endurance and stamina needed to be built up if he is to serve
as a pony. I was dismayed to hear his decision that, tomorrow morning, he
would chain Rafe to the waterwheel that keeps water flowing into La Foret's
extensive gardens and supplies the swimming pool and spas.

But I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard that Rafe is to be protected
from the sexual advances of his fellow slaves. Rafe is to spend his nights
locked into a security cage. This knowledge that Rafe would be safe was
most welcome. However, this consideration didn't extend to Pollux. When
asked by his overseer if Pollux was also to be similarly locked in a
security cage, my Master's answer was blunt to the extreme.

"No, there's no need. The slave can take his chances as best he can."

Despite my dislike of Pollux, I nevertheless feel sorry for him. Alone in
the dark, he will suffer the full horrors of the slave stables and
friendless, he will be helpless to protect himself from the depraved
attention of his fellow slaves.  My time in La Foret's slave stables is
still very recent and I know what awaits Pollux. Thankfully, during my
stay, Jake and I provided one another with mutual protection.

Poor Pollux! He doesn't have a Jake to help protect him.

Later as Jake and I were unharnessed and hosed down to remove the grime and
sweat of the day's labours from our bodies, we received an unexpected
reward. Claymore Jackson watched as we were groomed and as our grooms
prepared to lead us away to the pony stables, he instructed them to place
us in the same stall. The overseer remembered the bond that exists between
us and he wished to reward his pony for his good performance.

Good-naturedly, he gave our arses a playful slap and told us.

"I'm sure you two boys have a lot of catching up to do."

His knowing wink was suggestive and left us in no doubt that we had his
permission make love.

The months apart haven't diminished our ardour and the night is long. And
as the chief overseer had said we did indeed have a lot of catching up to
do.

Yet even as I thrust deeply into Jake, I have a guilty image of Rafe before
me. I think ahead to the day when I can claim Rafe just as I am doing with
Jake right at this moment. And as Jake's tightness squeezes and milks me, I
wish with all my heart that my cock was buried deep inside Rafe.

But this is unfair to Jake and I dismiss all thoughts of Rafe from my mind
and give myself over to pleasing him.

Finally, I am spent and I seek sleep by snuggling closer into Jake's
back. He stirs as my cock finds safe lodgement in the deep cleft of his
buttocks and he gives a gentle sigh of contentment. But for now we both
need to rest for whatever awaits us tomorrow.

But tomorrow night is another story. It will be my turn to return the
favour and open up my body to Jake.

Momentarily, sleep eludes me and drowsily I reflect on the day's
happenings.


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


Rafe and I had been awakened just as the first rays of the sun lightened
the predawn darkness and prepared by our grooms for the day. First we'd
been fed - sparingly in my case as my main meal of the day isn't given to
me until the completion of my day's labours. That way my body can,
overnight, take on the sustenance it needs for the following day and void
my waste products first thing in the morning.

Most responsible drivers refrain from over feeding their ponies first thing
in the morning. An overloaded belly can have a number of unfortunate
consequences for both the pony and his driver.

 Firstly, a full stomach makes the pony sluggish and slows him down. The
other consequences are of an indelicate nature. Given that a pony spends
most of his day in harness, it is highly probable that he'll need to
defecate at some point and while the general public is accepting of this,
the city's governing authority is less so; the laws governing the soiling
of public thoroughfares by ponies and household pets are stringent. It is
incumbent on all pony drivers and pet-owners to clean-up after their
animals and failure to do so attracts a draconian fine.

 My Master carries a small, sealed bucket and shovel in the luggage
compartment of his trap for just such an eventuality but to date I have
never given him cause to use them.

And then there is another less obvious but nonetheless distasteful
consequence of driving an overfed pony. The strenuous running and the sheer
physical effort required to keep the trap moving places great stress on a
pony's digestive tract which- and this varies with the individual - can
result in a noisily, repetitive "breaking of the wind". Naturally, a driver
sitting downwind of a pony wishes to spare himself the discomfort of this
and wisely limits his pony's food intake until the end of the working day.

But again, I am a well behaved pony. I never fart as I run in harness;
something my former driver, Lucien Barrois always appreciated.

Rafe and I had been taken by the groom slaves to the ablution block where
we'd relieved ourselves before we were hosed down, dried and I had been
harnessed to my Master's trap. Rafe had been secured to the shafts
alongside of me and I wondered about our Master's plans for us.  Even after
all this time serving as a human pony, I still find this uncertainty of
what the new day will bring as irksome. Of course, as a pony, I'm not
entitled to know my Master's movements. All that is required of me is that
I perform well and deliver him to whatever destination he decides upon.

But the fact that Rafe has been fastened to my trap is worrying. It
indicates to me that my Master is taking him some place and I worry that
the place is Lionel Schuster's slave market. Has my Master decided to sell
Rafe?

Rafe has been a slave for such a short time and as yet he hasn't fully
adapted to his changed circumstances. The thought that he could be sold and
parted from me upsets me. Rafe has become very dear to me; which is most
strange.  In view of the fact that he was once my master and owner, I
should hate and resent him. And at first I did.

 But there is an indefinable something about Rafe which tore away my
initial hostility towards him.  Many times since his enslavement, I have
asked myself why this is so - after all, don't I have every right to resent
him for his treatment of me.  I have thought hard about this and wondered -
what are the qualities that forced me to soften my feelings toward him.

Rafe has a lingering air of sadness about him. This isn't surprising when
you consider all he has lost.  Even as I initially rejoiced at his
downfall, I was aware that his losses were immeasurable and
heartrending. How could I, a simple Norwegian seaman, comprehend all that
the former Lucien Barrois had lost?  However, despite the great disparity
in our backgrounds we had two things in common. We have both lost our
freedom!  And we are slaves!

I often think back to my own enslavement and I constantly relive the trauma
of that event. I still recall the day I had been arrested and hauled into
court both as an illegal immigrant and a drug pedlar. It is true that I had
thrown caution to the wind and deliberately overstayed my visitor's permit
and therefore I have only myself to blame. I had gone on a binge of
drinking and whoring that had made me oblivious to time. When, I finally
sobered up, I found my ship had sailed without me and even though I didn't
know it then, the ships agents had registered me as an illegal over stayer.

Stranded with very little money, I wandered the streets, bewildered and
lost before I was picked up by the police and charged. I accepted the
validity of the charge that I was an 'illegal' but I rejected the idea that
I was a drug dealer. I have never taken any drugs - having seen their
effects on some of my fellow seamen was a strong deterrent not to do so -
nor would I give them to another. No, those drugs were planted on me by the
police to ensure that I was convicted and enslaved.

Being a stranger to the laws of this strange country, I made light of the
seriousness of my situation. I entered the court in the belief that I would
receive a light custodial sentence and then be deported back to my
homeland. I was completely unprepared for what followed.

The shock of hearing the judge's scathing assessment of my character still
rankles. I am not the dreadful criminal he described and he was wrong to
say I was beyond redemption.

Even as I listened to his words, I knew that I was in trouble but when he
sentenced me to slavery for life, his words failed to register. It wasn't
until His Honour ordered his bailiff to strip me naked and take me to be
processed into my slavery that I understood. I struggled and fought as hard
as I could and it took several brawny, security men to wrestle me to the
floor. They quickly stripped me of my clothing and using their canes to
great effect, they subdued me. As I lay scrunched into a trembling, sobbing
ball of misery, I heard the judge rebuke me saying that my behaviour was
reprehensible and the only rehabilitation open to me was through lifelong
slavery and hard work.

With that, I was hauled from the court, taken to the assessor and when he'd
done with me, I was delivered to the forge for branding and collaring. How
can I describe my emotions as all of this took place? My mind closed down
and tried to shield me from the reality of my plight. But it failed
dismally to protect me from the horror and pain of my branding. Sometimes,
in the dark quietness of my stall, I relive the pain and humiliation of the
branding iron.

Still not fully comprehending all that was happening; I was taken, along
with ten other newly enslaved, from the courts to a slave dealership to
await my eventual sale. That first night in the pens was a nightmare that
still haunts me. I will never forget the squalor, filth and stench of those
slave pens nor the wretched nakedness of my fellow slaves. All eleven of us
sought out a solitary spot within the pen where we spent that awful first
night alone and in total disbelief. Each of us found solace as best we
could.

For my part, I cried all night and was fully awake when, first thing in the
morning, we were given our first meal of the tasteless, grey, glutinous
mess that is now my staple diet. Then we were removed from our cage and
made to publicly attend to the 'calls of nature'.

How can I describe my sense of outrage at this treatment of us? I'd always
taken great personal pride in myself and to suddenly realise I was a naked
slave reduced to the base level of a farmyard animal left me with a sense
of shame and self- loathing.

Then we were made ready for inspection. Our handlers sprayed us with high
pressure hoses as they scrubbed us clean with a coarse soap, reeking of
disinfectant and stiff bristled brushes. Callously, they paid scant
attention to our fresh brands and laughed at our cries of pain as the
brushes tortured our wounded flesh.

This scrubbing down was my first introduction to the cruel indifference our
masters show to their slaves. But it wasn't to be the last. I now encounter
this cruel treatment of slaves every day of my life.

Indeed I saw numerous examples of it today as my Master drove out to La
Forˆt. We travelled through the 'breadbasket' of the city that supplies
it with all its fruits and vegetables and which lies a few miles beyond its
boundaries. The city is truly blessed by a bountiful Nature.  But, as they
buy their fruits and vegetables, do the lucky citizens of the city ever
consider the human cost of their good fortune. Do they give thought to the
suffering slaves who are driven relentlessly under the whip to work ever
harder in their interests?  I doubt they do.

Several times my Master halted me so that he and his son could observe the
slaves toiling in the fields or he pulled me to the side of the road to
allow a team of draft slaves hauling a heavily laden dray to the packing
sheds to pass. I watched horrified as these teams of misery strained into
their harnesses driven forward by the remorseless whips of their overseers.

And I reflected on my own good fortune. I could so easily be one of
them. My life as a pony is infinitely preferable to that of a draft slave.
If there is a god who involves himself in the affairs of a slave, then he
has smiled on me.

How fortunate I am that Lucien Barrois had bought me to serve as his
personal pony and not as a common work slave.

In its own greedy self-interest, this society re- introduced slavery. Often
I ask myself does it ever feel guilt for tolerating a system whereby one
human being exploits another for his personal gain. If there is a
collective sense of guilt, then this society assuages it by denying a slave
his humanity.

Slaves are the unwilling victims of their owners' greed and
self-interest. By stripping us naked, branding our bodies and placing a
collar around our necks, they seek to reduce us to the level of a beast of
burden. Then they no longer see us as human; in their eyes we have become
mere work animals which justify their treatment of us.

Yet in doing this, they also diminish themselves. Their callous disregard
for a slave robs them of their consciences and with each act of cruelty,
they shed just a little more of their own humanity. Every time the branding
iron sears itself into slave's captive flesh and each time a whip cuts
across an unprotected back they corrupt themselves and their society.

Once we were dry, our bodies were coated with a high gloss oil and we were
placed in an inspection pen. There, we stood bewildered and uncertain. I
kept telling myself this is a bad dream and that I'll awake soon to the
real world. But it wasn't a dream and when I realised this, I sought to
lose myself among my fellows.

During the morning, a steady procession of prospective buyers wandered
through to look at the new livestock. The favoured few were given the
privilege of a private viewing and periodically, some of our number were
removed from the pen, taken away and returned only when the client had
finished his inspection.

This is how I met the man who was to buy me; Lucien Barrois.

He noticed me before I saw him. I was lost in a world of disbelief and I
must have presented a forlorn figure as he surveyed me. I only became aware
of his presence when he pointed to me and asked if he could view me
privately.

As I was hauled from the security of the pen by two brawny, slave handlers,
my pent up anger and frustration erupted in a torrent of abuse; I lashed
out at them with my feet and shouted the vilest obscenities worthy of any
seaman. I struggled all the way as they dragged me to a viewing podium and
attempted to chain me into position. However, I was proving too much for
them to handle. They were quickly joined by two overseers and under the
combined weight of all four; I was forced to the floor of the podium where
the chain was quickly fastened around my ankle.

That day, I paid a high price for my rebelliousness and I learned my first
lesson in slave obedience.  Still on my knees, the two handlers thrashed me
with their canes. I tried to protect myself from the angry blows but my
efforts were futile. The overseers continued to beat me into
submission. Soon my cries of defiance gave way to the tears of acceptance.
Then and only then did my beating cease. The physical pain I sustained was
as nothing to the shame and humiliation I felt. I had been beaten like a
cur and I now lay whimpering at the feet of my tormentors.

And watching my torment was the man who was responsible it; for it was he
who'd ask to inspect me.  He eyes never left me and the corners of his
mouth were crinkled into a smile of amusement. I raised my head to look at
him with hate-filled eyes.  It was the moment when I laid all my impotent
anger, frustrated rage and utter helplessness on the shoulders of Lucien
Barrois. He was the manifestation of all that had happened to me over the
past twenty-four hours; my enslavement, my branding and now this ultimate
degradation of being publicly displayed- naked - for his amusement.  At
that moment, I loathed this aristocratic, young man and my hatred of him
bordered on the pathological.

Of course, Lucien Barrois bought me and I became his slave.

In those first few months, nothing my new Master did altered my feelings
towards him and I was determined he wouldn't break my spirit. I endured my
welcome home caning in resolute silence; I muffled my scream as he had his
brand burned into my chest and, red-faced with shame, I suffered as he
exercised his owner's right and 'robbed me of my cherry'.

 But these things paled into insignificance when he had me circumcised. At
first, he'd been attracted to my foreskin - he played with it a lot - and
allowed me to keep it. But he'd eventually grown tired of it and one day he
took me to a veterinarian where it was surgically removed. Humanely, he'd
allowed the vet to give me a local anaesthetic to kill the pain. I suppose
I should have been grateful to him for this but I wasn't. He was
instrumental in taking away a potent and obvious symbol of my manhood and I
hated him all the more for this.

My time spent at La Foret did nothing to sweeten my mood or to lessen my
hatred of the imperious Lucien Barrois. In the first few months, as I
laboured in the fields, I only ever saw him from a distance as he drove his
pony and trap on his inspection tours.

However, there was one memorable occasion when he and his chief overseer
had me taken out of my work-gang and I was made to stand before them as
they discussed my progression.  My body was pummelled, poked and prodded as
they tested it for its hardness. They gauged my muscles for their strength
and I suffered the humiliation of having the cheeks of my ass squeezed and
slapped as a test of their density and firmness. I bowed my head in shame
as Claymore Jackson delivered his verdict on me.

"Well Lucien. He's now ready to begin his pony training. These months
working in the fields have worked wonders with him. His development is
exceptional. He has a powerful chest with good lung capacity and a hard
flat belly. He is long legged with strong, muscular thighs and his ass is a
real pony's ass. It's well-rounded and not oversized. That's good!
Personally, I can't abide a pony with a big ass; makes them bottom heavy
and they look out of balance. I'd rather see such a slave pulling in a team
of drafts than between the shafts of a trap. No, this slave is perfect. You
chose well when you bought him."

The shame I felt as they discussed me so intimately deepened as the
overseer took my cock and balls into his hand and he stroked me to
erection.

"He's well-endowed! That's a plus." Claymore exclaims. "Heavy balls too:
real low hangers that'll swing free as he trots - and a large cock. He'll
show well as he runs and he'll do you proud."

At that stage, I was unaware that I would be required to 'show well' when I
am between the shafts.  Eventually, I'll discover that the ability to show
well is a highly desirable trait in a pony. It is one the buyer looks for
when he purchases a pony and it adds greatly to his value. For some reason
- which eludes me - a driver takes pride in the size of his pony's
genitalia. It really is a case of the more generous the size of genitals
the greater is the owner's pride in his pony.

Is there a subliminal message here? Does the size of a pony's cock and
balls overcompensate for any perceived self- deficiencies of his owner? I
have wondered about this several times as I stood patiently while my
genitals were fondled and stroked by an admiring friend of my
Master. Usually, these occasions ended with him being congratulated on my
good showing.

But one thing I do know; Lucien Barrios had no reason to overcompensate. I
know this from personal experience; for on those occasions when he used me
sexually, I learned to appreciate that he was very well endowed.

I will discover that running as a pony can be powerfully erotic. Perhaps it
is the helplessness of our situations and the knowledge that we are totally
controlled by our drivers but most ponies do manage to sport and maintain
an erection as they run between the shafts. And I do this admirably.

I wasn't returned to my work-gang that day. Instead, Claymore Jackson took
me to the stables and my pony training began in earnest that same day.

Those next few months while I trained as a pony were difficult ones for
me. I was trained hard and whipped often until I became the perfect
pony. Much was expected and demanded of me and there was an added emphasis
to my training. After all, I was special for I was to serve an illustrious
Master, Lucian Barrois. However, I prefer not to dwell too much on that
unhappy time. Let me just say that as I was trained to serve him, my hatred
of Lucian Barrois grew.

It is indeed ironic that the slave Rafe is now to experience first-hand
this very same training that Lucien Barrois had demanded of me.  I suppose
I should rejoice in this; but I don't. I derive no pleasure from knowing of
the pain and tribulations that confront Rafe as he is trained to join me as
the other half of our Master's 'pair in hand'.

But, I have to say I look forward to Rafe eventually sharing my life both
as my team mate and hopefully as my lover. The next six months will be
long, lonely ones for me.

Why and when did my feelings towards Lucien Barrois begin to change?
Truthfully, I don't know.  The change was gradual and I can't recall an
exact moment when it began.

Those first few weeks of serving as his pony were humiliating ones for
me. As he drove me naked through the city's streets, I seethed at the
injustice of my situation and I blamed him for all that had happened to
me. I still saw him as the instigator of my downfall and heaped all my pent
up anger onto his shoulders.

But as the weeks passed and as Lucien Barrois built a rapport between us,
my attitudes began to shift in his favour. It's true that he demanded much
from me and his whip ensured I met his expectations.  But he wasn't a cruel
Master and unlike some others who mistreat their ponies abominably, he
never abused me. And as I witnessed those abuses, I came to the realisation
that I had a good Master.

One thing a pony does have in excess is the time to think. And whenever I
stand tethered and wait for my Master's return I do a lot of thinking. I
suppose all ponies do this during their periods of inactivity; they have
nothing else to do to relieve the sheer boredom of standing motionless in
the same spot.

And I began to think often on how the fates had conspired against me and
delivered me into my slavery.

Increasingly, I began to recognise that it wasn't Lucien Barrois who
condemned me to lifelong servitude. It was a combination of my own
stupidity in missing my ship's departure and overstaying my welcome and the
unforgiving laws of the land. When, I accepted that it went someway to
mollifying my hatred of him.

Certainly, I'd felt anger when he first bought me as his slave. He was the
manifestation of all that had gone wrong for me and he was the scapegoat
for all those who'd delivered me into bondage. And so it was very easy for
me to focus my suppressed anger and carefully concealed frustration on him.

As I served him, I started to realise the unfairness in blaming him solely
and my feelings towards him softened considerably.  I still bitterly
resented the fact that I was a slave but I began to realise my situation
could be worse.

And today, as we travelled out to La Foret, I had glimpses of just how
lucky I was to have been bought by Lucien Barrois. His benevolent ownership
of me had spared me the horrors of being a permanent field-hand, or worse,
a heavy duty, draft slave.

True, there had been my six months sojourn at La Foret but that had been a
necessary prelude to prepare me for the comparatively easy life of a human
pony. This is something that Rafe is about to discover and somehow I
suspect his six months will be infinitely more taxing than mine. For poor
Rafe carries an extra burden on his shoulders. Through no fault of his own,
he is the reviled 'imposter', Lucien Barrois and he is the helpless target
of the Maratier family's hatred of the Barrois name.

So gradually, my feelings towards Lucien changed until a type of peace
reigned between us. But to my shame, my feelings relapsed on the day that
Lucien Barrois became the slave, Rafe. I now regret my pleasure in seeing
him stripped naked, branded and collared and reduced to my level. And it
did me no credit as I rejoiced in the shame and humiliation he'd been
subjected to by the jeering crowds lining the pavements as our new Master
drove us home for the first time. I remember his tears and his sobbing
apology to me as he ran at my side driven onwards by the whip of his new
Master, Guy Maratier.

His heartfelt words, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry" tore at my heartstrings and
I felt pity for this friendless, new slave who was universally hated and
reviled. His words shamed me then and they still do. It was at that moment,
I decided to befriend him and to guide him through the first traumatic days
of his transition from free man to slave. I felt I owed him that.

Now as Rafe stands tethered at my side and we wait on our Master, I worry
that Rafe is to be sold.  The thought that Rafe and I are to be parted
depresses me. But my fears for Rafe prove unfounded and my mood lightens as
the new house steward, Ben fastens the slave, Pollux to my cart. The
thought races through my mind that rather than delivering Rafe to the
slave-yards, our Master is taking him and Pollux to La Forˆt. And a smug
Ben confirms this with his cruel taunting of Rafe.

"Well boy! Today's the day you become a real slave. Our Master is taking
you out to his plantation and putting you to work in the fields.  How do
you feel about that?"

Rafe remains silent and an infuriated Ben viciously slaps his face.

"I spoke to you boy! Answer me."

I am shocked by Ben's behaviour. I didn't know him that well but he'd
always struck me as possessing a pleasant nature. He'd been Lucien Barrois'
favourite and from what I had seen he'd been well treated by his
Master. And so his treatment of Rafe seems very much out of character.

But they say "power corrupts" and this is certainly true of Ben. In recent
days he has been elevated to the highest position within our Master's
household that a slave can aspire to. He'd gone from being his former
Master's bed slave to replacing Cato as house steward. However, this wasn't
done through any ability on his part. He owed his good fortune entirely to
the machinations of our Mistress, Charlotte Maratier.

She had been instrumental in having the former Barrois house steward, Cato
removed from that position and sold and she had also rejected Pollux as our
Master's replacement for him. Initially, she'd appointed Ben to the
position as a stop gap until our Master found a suitable house steward. But
the wily Ben seized the opportunity to insinuate himself into his
Mistress's favour. And for some reason she has responded positively to
him. Her attitude towards Ben is almost affectionate and so at odds with
her normally sour disposition. What is it about Ben that has made him her
favourite?

Is it the young slave's sycophantic attitude to her or is it that he senses
her implacable hatred of Rafe and plays to this animosity by his treatment
of Rafe? Whatever it is, Ben is now her favourite slave and when she moves
into the home her grateful grandson has just purchased for her, she is to
reward him. Our Master has made a gift of Ben to his grandmother and she is
to take her new slave with her to serve as her head of household.

Ben is aware that his Mistress is watching from an upstairs window and no
doubt salivating at the thought that today Rafe is to confront the rigours
of a common field-slave. He has an audience of one and he is playing to
that audience.

Cruelly he swipes his cane across Rafe's ass and demands that he answer
him.

"Answer me when I speak to you!  How do you feel about becoming a common
work slave?"

It would be so easy for Rafe to be provoked into rebuking his former slave
but Rafe is learning that a slave must think carefully before answering any
questions put to him. I am relieved at his simple reply.

"If it's what my Master wants then I accept his decision."

It is the right answer and it doesn't give Ben grounds for
complaint. Nevertheless, he continues with his taunts and tells Rafe about
his 'special' relationship with our Master and then he boasts of Guy
Maratier's sexual prowess. Crudely, he compares Rafe's sexual performance
with that of his new Master.

 He tells Rafe there is no comparison and that Lucien had always left him
'unsatisfied'. Sarcastically, he tells Rafe how he'd always faked his
responses to Lucien's lovemaking. It wasn't ecstasy that had caused him to
cry out but rather the fear of punishment. He tells Rafe that he doesn't
need to fake it with our new Master who is a 'real man'. Lucien Barrois was
by comparison a 'mere boy' and an inexperienced one at that.

I seethe with anger at this unnecessary tormenting of Rafe but we are
spared any more of Ben's vitriol.  He falls silent and assumes a position
of respect as our Master and his son, Etienne cross the courtyard to where
we wait.

As our Master and his son climb into my cart, Ben unties my tether and
hands my reins to him. Master doesn't acknowledge Ben; rather he slaps the
reins on my shoulders and tells me to "WALK ON!"

As we turn out of the quiet residential street, Master heads me in the
direction La Forˆt. I know the route well. I have travelled this way
many times under the guidance of Lucien Barrois. Today I am to take my new
Master, Guy Maratier to claim "La Foret as his own and to deliver his new
slave Rafe into the hands of his black overseers.

I flinch as the whip cuts across my ass and I respond to Master Etienne's
shrill, boyish command to.

"Giddy up horsey!"

 I break into a smart, high stepping gait. And already I am 'showing
well. My Master will be pleased with me.

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


 RAFE:

Nothing in my wildest imagination could ever have prepared me for the
nightmarish horrors of La Foret's slave stables. The appalling stench
overwhelms me; my nose wrinkles in disgust, the awful smell catches in my
throat and my stomach churns in revulsion. The smell of unwashed bodies,
stale sweat, urine, excrement and vomit permeates the very air I breathe.

But the real putrefaction of this vile place isn't its squalor or its foul
smell. Rather it is the miserable existence of the wretched creatures that
inhabit the stables overnight as they rest their tired, aching bodies after
their day's labour and allow their muscles and sinews to rejuvenate for
tomorrow.

Before today I have never entered into the slave stables. After all, as
Lucien Barrois, why would I?  My interest in my slaves extended only to
their work output and I was totally disinterested in their creature
comforts; I left such things to my overseers. I lived a life of splendid
seclusion amid the luxury and grandeur of the La Foret's stately home and
the green expanse of its gardens of shady trees and sweet smelling plants.

The stables were far removed and screened from my view and I was protected
from their putrid stench. I ignored them and subsequently, they never
intruded into my consciousness.

 In every sense of the word - 'they were out of sight and out of mind". Now
they are very much in my mind for they have become my new "home".

These first few hours have been traumatic ones for me and even more so for
my fellow slave Pollux.  At least I am protected by my security cage from
the vileness to which the wild-eyed and weeping Pollux is being
subjected. He is the focus of much attention from the bestial inhabitants
of this hellish place. Deemed by them to be 'fresh meat' his tormentors
wait impatiently in line to rape him. His pitiful pleas for mercy are
ignored and are the cause of much coarse laughter. As I watch, I am
overcome with pity for his suffering.

And at the same time, I am thankful that my Master was declared "my ass
inviolate and out of bounds". Otherwise I would now share Pollux's dreadful
fate.

After our branding and collaring, Pollux and I had been fed and watered and
then taken to the stables where my handler Sir Conn had placed me in my
security cage. My situation is ironic. Just a few weeks ago, I sat with
Claymore Jackson as we'd interviewed this self-assured young man for the
job of apprentice overseer. The young, black youth had impressed me with
his maturity and self- confidence. He was, I decided, just the type of
young man La Forˆt required. I'd liked his directness and no nonsense
approach to our questions on how he'd handle the slaves in his charge. His
enthusiasm was infectious and I smiled inwardly at the thought of my slaves
buckling under his strict discipline and whip.

Now of course I am a slave and I will experience Sir Conn's discipline for
myself.

Pollux didn't share my good fortune. There's to be no safe haven for
him. He was simply night- hobbled and left to take his chances.

Pollux and I waited apprehensively for the return of the slaves at the end
of the day. As they were night-hobbled by their overseers and driven into
the stable, I was struck by their brutish appearances.  They reminded me of
dumb beasts of burden.

There seemed to a pecking order in their behaviour as they divided into two
groups. One group appeared placidly docile while the other was noisily
aggressive. In time, I will recognise one group as submissive and the other
as dominant. Tonight however the dominants' interest centres on me.

They know who I am and they are expecting me. They now see their former
owner reduced to their level. Like them I am a naked slave and I shudder to
think what they'd do to me should they succeed in getting hold of me.  But
my cage is substantially constructed and it provides me with a solid
sanctuary.

Eventually, I will find there is a type of bush telegraph that operates
throughout the plantation and nothing escapes their notice. They'd heard of
my arrival and now they crowd around my cage as they jeer and taunt me. I
am terrified and I try to make myself inconspicuous by crouching in a
corner of the cage. This angers them and they begin to spit at me through
the tight bars that protect me from their groping hands. In their
frustration, they begin to shout and violently rock my prison in the futile
hope of dislodging me from its safety.

Their voices grow louder with their violence until their noise attracts the
attention of their overseers.  Noisily, the door to the stable is thrown
open and ten black overseers enter and using their whips to good effect,
they disperse my tormentors. Pandemonium reigns as the overseers whip the
slaves to the floor. They continue to lash the slaves who, like so many
whipped curs, crawl away to their straw bedding.

Finally peace is restored and after Sir Conn has checked my cage, the
overseers withdraw. Quietness reigns briefly but then they spy Pollux
huddled in a corner. Like a pack of scavenging wolves they descend upon
him. Soon, I lose sight of him but I hear his frantic pleading from beneath
the scrum of convulsing bodies all eager to be the first to partake of this
tasty 'morsel of fresh meat' that their Master has callously tossed to
them.

This is to be a long night for Pollux. I try to shut out his loud screams
of outrage and pain and his vain pleading. Gradually, his protests weaken
and his shouting ceases only to be replaced by his soft sobbing. But even
this is drowned out by the animal-like grunts, snorts and farting of the
foul creatures who despoil him.

I had disliked Pollux's air of smug superiority and so much about him had
annoyed me but he doesn't deserve this. My heart is heavy as I watch from
the safety of my sanctuary.

Then a horrifying thought flashes through my mind. Had Norge suffered these
horrors on his first night in the stables? Had I been instrumental in him
suffering in much the same way that Pollux now suffers? The notion that he
had chills me. But I'm not to know the answer to these questions. I'm not
to know that Norge had teamed with his fellow slave Jake for mutual
protection.

I try to sleep for I know tomorrow I am to be sorely tested and face the
most difficult day of my life.  Tomorrow morning I will be chained to the
waterwheel that supplies La Foret's gardens and swimming pool with a never
ending supply of water. There, my labours will be Sisyphean for I will walk
uphill on the one spot, going nowhere but achieving much. And I will do
this under the direction and the whip of my handler, Sir Conn.

I try to sleep but sleep eludes me. I close my eyes and cover my ears in a
vain attempt to shut out the sights and sounds of Pollux's debasement.


To be continued.............