Date: Sun, 7 Aug 2011 00:51:04 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 36 Gay Male/Authoritarian

"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES"
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 36: "Six Months Later"


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 36: "Six Months Later"

For the past six months my life has centred on the onerous duties demanded
of me at La Foret. Once this property had been mine; now I am just one of
its many chattels belonging to its new owner, Guy Maratier.

Today, all being well, I will graduate and be judged ready to return to the
city to begin my work as one of my Master's human ponies. I'm unsure of
what Master has in mind for me.  However, I recall his original plan was to
have me trained as a pony and then to pair me with Norge as a 'pair in
hand'. I hope with all my heart that this is still to happen.

I stand erect in the display position and try to hide my nervousness as my
Master minutely examines me. Desperately, I hope I pass and he considers me
ready to take home to the city with him. The thought uppermost in my mind
is that I am to be re-united with my beloved Norge. I long for this to
happen more than anything else that I have ever craved.

Master praises me to his chief overseer, Claymore Jackson and compliments
him on my progress.

And at the risk of sounding immodest, Master's praise is
well-founded. Claymore has wrought great changes in me both mentally and
physically during the six months that I have been at La Foret.

Although, strictly speaking, the most credit for my transformation should
go to my special handler, Sir Conn. The young, black overseer has worked
diligently with me to raise me to the high standard my Master demands of
me.

Over the past six months both Sir Conn and I have matured into our
respective roles of obedient slave and confident overseer. Our roles were
symbiotic and we have learned much from one another.

These past months have transformed us both. Sir Conn has grown both in
stature and confidence. He is now supremely self-assured and has earned the
respect of his fellow overseers and the unqualified attention of the
plantation's slaves. Sir Conn gained the respect of his peers through his
pleasant manner and his willingness to learn and the attention of the
slaves by his uncompromising firmness and the liberal use of his whip.

Without doubt, I chose well when I'd agreed with Claymore Jackson to give
him his apprenticeship.

I stand proudly erect as my Master's hands roam over my body testing the
strength of my sinews and the hardness of my muscles. Once I had flinched
in shame at the mere touch of a free man's hands on my naked body; now I
fully accept this as a free man's right to do so.

To give my Master a greater appreciation of his property, I draw myself to
my full height and tighten my body so that I am better displayed. With my
hands clasped behind my head I push back my elbows and thrust out my
chest. I have a new awareness of my body and I am proud of it. But my
self-pride would be as nothing when compared to my Master's pride of
ownership in me.

His hands move swiftly to assess me. I haven't seen my Master all that much
over the past six months. There were the few occasions when he'd had me
taken from my labours and I had been presented to him for inspection. But
these had been cursory examinations and were very different to this one
which is proving to be more thorough. Consequently, I am unaware of the
changes in my Master during those six months.

He looks into my face and I lower my eyes out of respect for him. But in
the split second that our eyes meet, I glimpse the remarkable changes
wrought in him also.

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

He has about him the haughty manner that I had once possessed. But this is
to be expected.  He does, after all, possess the proud Barrois heritage
even though he doesn't bear that name. The Barrois blood that flows through
his veins is the same that flows through my own. However, his Barrios blood
has been enhanced with that of the Maratier's whereas mine has been tainted
by that of an obscure slave woman named Ophelia with whom my natural father
had spent a few brief minutes of carnal pleasure. I am the unfortunate
result of that union and I am paying a high price for Philippe Barrois'
dalliance with one of his father's slaves.

But Guy Maratier now possesses other newly acquired qualities. His air of
shiftless poverty is no more. He is now a man completely at ease with his
new wealth and this has given him an air of self-assurance that he'd
previously lacked. And he has matured.  This is most evident in his
treatment of me.

He no longer taunts me and his need for revenge seems to be satiated. Today
he treats me as he would any other of his slaves. Perhaps these past six
months have been as big a transitional period for him as they have been for
me. His life has gone from shabby poverty to immense wealth and he seems to
have made the transition with some aplomb.

Of course, I'm not privy to such matters, but in time I will hear more
about him from his house slaves. They, like all house slaves, are a
'gossipy' lot and nothing delights them more than to furtively whisper
about their Master and inevitably their tattle-tales will filter through to
the stables where Norge and I are destined to share a stall. They will tell
me that our Master moved quickly to establish his authority over the vast
Barrois holdings; he'd listened with quiet diplomacy to those within the
Barrois Empire who gave him sound advice and he had quickly removed those,
who sought to take advantage of his inexperience. They'd found to their
cost that Guy Maratier has a ruthlessness they'd not expected to find in
him.

Wisely, Guy had formed a special friendship with my former lawyer, Simon
Barrow. Simon had made good on Judge Matthew's instruction to assist my
Master in taking control of the vast, Barrois estate and with great
foresight he'd moved swiftly to change the Barrois name to that of
Maratier. In doing so, Simon had effectively neutralised any public
animosity and backlash against the various former Barrois enterprises
caused by my ignominious downfall.

It would appear that Simon is the quintessential lawyer; from all accounts,
he is both scrupulously honest and beyond reproach and he now serves the
interests of the new heir to the Barrois fortune as conscientiously as he'd
served my grandfather and me. In doing so, he has proved his worth and Guy
relies on Simon's sound judgement to the extent that Simon Barrow now works
exclusively for the newly rebadged Maratier enterprises. In fact, Simon's
position within the business conglomerates is second only to that of my
Master's own.

On a more personal level, both Guy and Simon feel a genuine, mutual
affection for one another and they have become inseparable.  Eventually
when I am returned to the city, I will hear the house slaves' gossip that
suggests a stronger, physical relationship exists between the
two. Certainly, I'll notice that Simon is a frequent overnight visitor to
my Master's home.  And this won't surprise me. Simon always had great sex
appeal for me. I was unsure of his sexual orientation and this uncertainty
- and my fear of being rebuffed - had stopped me from making any
advances. I did after all have my pride to consider. Perhaps I was wrong to
hesitate in view of what the house slaves are to tell me.

Simon had also been instrumental in having an earlier court ruling -
granting custody of Guy's son, Etienne to his mother - overturned. Master
Etienne is now in his father's custody and is being groomed as the heir
apparent to the Maratier fortune. I will learn that Master Etienne now
attends the exclusive school where I'd received my education. As it did
with me, the school will prepare him for his future role as a "young
gentleman of means".

But perhaps Master's most significant change was to free himself from the
dominance of his grandmother, Charlotte Maratier. He did this so succinctly
that she'd not even suspected his motives. And he achieved this by his
lavish spending on her behalf.

My Master had grown up very much in his grandmother's shadow. Always
formidable and bitter, he was her only weakness. He was the one redeeming
feature in the bleakness of her unhappy existence and he was the focus of
her suffocating affection. And through him, she'd sought revenge on the
Barrois family who had rejected her so many years ago.

Poor Guy! From his earliest years, she had regaled him with her litany of
hate and instilled in him the need for vengeance against her
family. Inevitably, he shared her hatred of the Barrois name and the need
for retribution but he lacked her malevolence. His hatred of me was never
as intense as Charlotte Maratier's and in the six months I have been at La
Forˆt it has mellowed to such an extent that I am no more or no less
than any other of his slaves.

Guy is grateful to his grandmother; after all he owes his current good
fortune to her efforts in exposing me as slave progeny and therefore not
the legitimate heir to the Barrois fortune.  No, he is immensely grateful
to her - and he genuinely loves her. But in recent years her sour
disposition and pathological hate-filled ranting have cast a pall of gloom
over him and he wanted - indeed he needed - to break free of her.

And so, he'd moved quickly and decisively to remove her from his household
and to establish her in one of her own.

Guy had spent extravagantly. He'd bought a luxurious mansion surrounded by
well- established gardens at a suitably discreet distance from his own home
and he'd equipped it with luxurious furnishings and valuable "objet d'arts"
that reflected her newly restored status. He also staffed it with enough
slaves to satisfy her every whim and recognising the strong bond that
existed between his grandmother and the young slave, Ben, he had made a
present of him to her.

From all accounts, Master is genuinely surprised by this unlikely alliance
between his elderly grandmother and the young slave. Briefly, he'd worried
about their close relationship but the notion that Ben was his mistress's
'toy-boy' was too preposterous to contemplate and he'd quickly dismissed it
from his mind. Nevertheless, it is completely out of character for
Charlotte to show such warm affection to any individual- least of all to a
slave.

But I know from personal experience that Ben has an engaging personality
and when I was his master, he'd been a firm favourite of mine. Cannily,
he'd used his wiles and considerable sex appeal to win my favour and
indulgently, I had allowed him a degree of latitude I denied to my other
slaves. And it would seem his winning ways had melted through Charlotte
Maratier's icy exterior.

It is now six months since my no obligation, free appraisal by the
slave-dealer, Lionel Schuster. That same day, Master had engaged Lionel
Schuster to find him a perfectly matched pair of slaves - preferably
identical twins - to serve as bearers for the new sedan chair which he'd
specially commissioned for his grandmother. This was a 'special order' -
such slaves as Master required are extremely rare - but the dealer had
recently found a suitable pair. I believe Master was delighted with them;
so much so that he'd paid a special bonus to the dealer and acceded to his
request not to ask any questions as to how he came by them.

As a free man, I was well aware Lionel Schuster had a reputation for shady
dealings and in all probability, the unfortunate brothers were somehow
spirited away from their home and familiar surroundings into a slavery that
now sees them serve as beasts-of-burden.  In time I will become familiar
with the slave twins as our paths cross from time to time. On those
occasions I'll give thanks that Norge and I are used a ponies and not as
bearers of Charlotte Maratier's sedan chair.

In designing the chair, our Master had not given thought to the slaves'
capacity to bear its heavy load. He'd gone for style over substance;
flamboyance instead of good taste and the result was a cumbersome
conveyance heavily decorated in the baroque style. Indeed its load was so
heavy that it soon became necessary for Ben to accompany his Mistress on
her outings. Armed with a short whip, he walked alongside the sedan chair
constantly encouraging the bearers as their bodies strained and their legs
buckled under the enormous load of both the chair and their Mistress.

As first Charlotte's sedan chair and her two strapping slaves provoked much
discussion and some mirth among the "old moneyed families" who resented her
sudden re-emergence as a dominating force within the city's social
hierarchy. But fearful of social ostracism, they wisely made sure she never
heard their comments. And to her delight, Charlotte's chair started a new
trend. Now more and more sedan chairs can be seen moving through the city's
street.

This new arrangement of two separate households works well for both Guy
Maratier and his grandmother. Guy is now undisputed Master of his household
while Charlotte holds "queenly court" from her new home.

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

Master's hands sweep down over my chest and belly. He pauses long enough to
tease my nipples into proud erection and then to gauge the depth of my
navel with his index finger.  He cups my heavy balls in one hand and gently
squeezes them as he strokes my semi- tumescence into life. He steps back to
look at his handiwork; my cock now juts out at right angles to my lower
belly. He smiles his approval and comments.

"Well Claymore! The pony shows well. That's good! It will complement my
other pony splendidly."

Master is speaking of Norge who is standing patiently alongside Claymore
Jackson's pony, Jake. Obviously both ponies have been driven hard and even
though their legs have stopped quivering and their breathing has returned
to normal, their bodies are still lathered in sweat.

It is early afternoon and the sun is still climbing towards its fiery
zenith. Its oppressive heat beats down on our unprotected bodies - how I
envy my Master and the overseers their broad brim hats which protect their
heads - and I too am perspiring profusely. My sweat doesn't seem to upset
my Master as his hands continue to glide over my nakedness.

Exposure to the sun over the past six months has darkened my skin to an
attractive deep tan that now matches that of Norge. Even my nether regions
- once a ghostly white - have been incorporated into my overall tan.

My body is smooth and I wear the closely cropped hair style of a pony - the
stable slaves groom me twice a day by hosing me down and oiling my body
which highlights my musculature and keeps my skin supple. In fact, it would
be true to say I have lived a papered existence these past three
months. This is in direct contrast to the unremittingly hard labour of my
first three months toiling in the fields or on the water-wheels and pumps
that keep the water flowing through La Forˆt's intricate system of
canals and irrigation channels.

Initially, the head overseer, Claymore Jackson had considered it necessary
to toughen me and to build up my cardio-vascular and muscular strength by
having me work as a field slave for those first three months. He took a
personal interest in me and he'd placed me under the control of my own
special handler, Sir Conn.

Even so, and despite his busy schedule, he'd call by several times during
the day to check on my progress. He'd have me pause whatever it was that I
was doing and examine my body as he questioned Sir Conn as to my work
output and attitude.  He would ignore me - in his eyes I was merely a slave
- and make suggestions to my young handler as to how he could have me do
better. And it has to be said that Sir Conn always acted enthusiastically
upon those suggestions. Sir Conn has a strong, right arm and wields a heavy
whip. I can vouch for that and I learned early to obey him.

I was sorely tested during those first three months and if I'd considered
it would be easy to give in and die then I was wrong. Even in the worst of
adversity, I discovered I possessed a spark of survival that made me want
to live - even as a slave. And always at the forefront of my mind was the
thought that with each passing day I was that closer to being re-united
with Norge. He was the one bright light in the dark firmament of my
existence and it was he who sustained me through those awful first days at
La Foret.

I missed Norge dreadfully! I missed his wise words of advice and I longed
for his unstinting support. But most of all, I missed his touch and his
smell. As I rested in my security cage, protected from the predations of my
fellow slaves, my body ached for the tight embrace of his arms and the feel
of his strong, muscular body pressed close into mine. I missed the iron-
rod hardness and heat of his cock crossing swords with my own cock and the
sensation of it nestled comfortably within my ass-crack. But most of all, I
wanted to feel it buried deep within me.

From time to time, I did see Norge. Whenever my Master visited La Foret, he
would drive Norge on his tours of inspection and we would be close to one
another. Of course we were forbidden any interaction and we had to remain
silent. But Norge's eyes spoke the words that his tongue couldn't and
always they encouraged me to continue. And I sensed if Norge could speak to
me he would tell me how proud he is of my progress.

At the sight of Norge, my heart would race and my cock would swell with my
love for him.  And always, my Master and his two overseers, Claymore
Jackson and Sir Conn would note my state of arousal and comment favourably
on my "good showing" which augers well for my new role as a pony.

I have been in pony training for the past three months and I have been
under Claymore Jackson's tutelage. He has taken sole responsibility for my
training and his training methods are firm but just. As long as I give of
my best, he treats me fairly and holds back on his whip.  The pony stables
are infinitely preferable to the slave stables and I have my own stall
adjacent to the pony Jake. Sometimes, in the dead of night we talk about
Norge. As a pony in training, I am well fed, kept well groomed and I have
clean straw bedding to sleep on.

My Master's visits have been infrequent of late and I can only assume his
many business interests occupy his time elsewhere. Since I have been in the
stables, this is his first visit and tonight, to my delight, Claymore
Jackson will stable Norge in Jake's stall. Perhaps, we'll have the
opportunity to talk and I can tell Norge of my progress.

Proudly I will tell Norge, I now accept the inevitability of my changed
circumstances and want nothing more than to serve alongside of him. And I
am justifiably proud of my progress; I have come a long way since my
enslavement. I have moved from bitter despair into final acceptance of my
new station in life.  I now accept that I am a slave. And in my acceptance,
I have found a new peace of mind and a degree of contentment.

However, it wasn't always like this and I think back to when I'd commenced
my labours at La Foret. Even now I shudder at the horrors of those first,
terrible days.


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


The memory of my first night in the slave stables will linger with me
forever. How can I ever forget the torments suffered by my unfortunate
fellow slave, Pollux? I still hear his wild cries and his pleas for mercy
falling on deaf ears as his tormentors raped him.

I watched from within the safety of my security cage and at first I'd tried
to shut out the sights and sounds of Pollux's suffering. But his pitiful
entreaties overrode my vain efforts to ignore him and eventually, like a
moth drawn to a lighted candle, I watched in fascinated horror as he was
cruelly abused.

The darkened interior of the stables assumed a nightmarish quality and as I
watched the naked, contorted bodies of my new slave brethren writhing and
wrestling to be next in line to use Pollux, I was reminded of the tormented
souls in "Dante's Inferno".  That night, I am sure Pollux suffered all the
terrors of Hell.

I think my unavailability only worsened Pollux's plight. Unable to reach me
through the stout bars of my security cage, they had centred their rage and
frustration on him and he bore the brunt of their brutal assaults. If I'd
been accessible there'd have been two of us to share among the more
dominant, aggressive slaves.

The more docile of the slaves huddled placidly together against one wall
watching with disinterest as Pollux was cruelly molested. No doubt, they
were thankful that they were being left alone. On any other night, they
would be pestered by their more aggressive companions. However, that night,
there was 'newer, fresher meat' to be savoured by the dominant slaves and
the timid slaves welcomed this chance for an unmolested rest.  Overcome by
the rigours of their day's labours, many of them simply slept oblivious to
Pollux's ordeal. As victims, why would they show concern for Pollux? The
next night and on subsequent nights, I will witness their brutal raping.

Soon the cavernous interior of the stables was in darkness and mercifully I
was no longer able to watch. But my ears still heard Pollux tearfully
begging to be spared and the orgiastic grunting and groaning of his brutish
abusers.

I had no idea such things were possible. When I was the owner of these
slaves, I was oblivious to the horrors now taking place before me. As I try
to shut out the sights and sounds of Pollux's dreadful ordeal, I am
reminded that, as their Master, I'd paid no heed to the conditions under
which my slaves existed.

No one had told me of these things and perhaps my former overseers decided
I shouldn't be troubled by them. It would've been so easy for me to lay the
blame with the overseers.  But it was less easy for me to absolve myself of
my complicit guilt for my past indifference.  This guilt must lie with
Lucien Barrois. It was his disregard for his slaves' well-being that had
allowed their degeneracy to fester and flourish within La Foret's
stables. And he must share in some of the blame for what was happening to
Pollux.

And I reflected on bitter irony in all this. The Master, Lucien Barrois had
sown the seeds for the harvest that I, the slave Rafe, would now harvest.

I will find time moves slowly in the slave barracks and that first night,
in its dark interior, I have no idea for how long Pollux
suffered. Eventually his struggles ceased - I can only assume he'd
"surrendered" - and his protests fell silent and were replaced with his
soft crying.

Inevitably his ordeal ended when his abusers had satiated their lust and he
was left to rest huddled in a corner on his own. I'd never liked
Pollux. I'd resented his air of self-importance and his arrogance. But that
night I felt great sympathy for him. He had been stripped of his humanity
and had his spirit crushed.

The next morning, when we were taken out to work, I saw a "new" Pollux. His
easy- and annoying - swagger had vanished. Wild-eyed, battered and bruised,
he was but a shell of the self-preening, overreaching slave that Master had
bought from Lionel Schuster. Broken by the night's events, he sought
sanctuary among the more timid slaves. He was now one of their numbers and
he'll be subjected to the same frightful, nightly abuses that are their lot
at the hands of their more aggressive fellow slaves.

Pollux never recovered from the horrors of his first night in the slave
barracks.

I was parted from Pollux the next morning. As I was led away to begin my
labours on the waterwheel, Pollux was placed in a work gang and taken to a
distant field. During the day our paths seldom crossed but I did see him
each night in the stables. There, I noticed how, whenever a dominant slave
approached him and slapped him on his ass, he would, with hopeless
resignation, fall onto his hands and knees and open up his body to fresh
torment.

The memory of my first night in the slave barracks still haunts me. And
yet, I was lucky for I slept - fitfully - in the safety of my security
cage. After Pollux's repeated raping, an air of normality returned to the
stables as the slaves slept in readiness for tomorrow's labours.

Sleep eluded me at first and I was left to contemplate my new
surroundings. My senses were revolted by the vileness of my new home. I
listened to the sounds of the slumbering slaves; their noisy grunting and
groaning and their loud farting disturbed the night silence and the stench
of their unwashed, sweaty bodies permeated the air I breathed.

Since my enslavement, I have often been reminded of my changed
circumstances and I had begun to think of myself as a mere beast of
burden. However that night, for the first time, I saw myself reduced to the
status of a farmyard animal sleeping in a barn with its companions. That
night, I was at the nadir of my despair and I wept for all I had lost.

But I did eventually fall into a fitful sleep and I wasn't awake to see the
first rays of the sun pierce the gloom of the stables. My introduction to
the new day was more dramatic. I was awakened by the loud, impatient
shouting of the black overseers and the loud cracking of their whips. And
my awakening was even more personal as Sir Conn prodded me into alertness
through the bars of my cage with his whip handle.

"WAKE UP, DUMB ASS!"  He shouted impatiently. "It's time to get you out and
working."

With that, the young overseer opened the front of my cage and ordered me
out. I was forced to crawl out on all fours and as I did so, he swiped his
whip handle across my ass.

"HURRY ALONG, BOY!  Move your lazy white ass! I need to get you working and
I don't have all day to do it. MOVE IT!"

Sir Conn has been appointed as my personal "one -to -one" handler and he
moves swiftly to assert his authority over me. Supremely confident, he
orders me into the display position.  Purposefully, he walks around me
examining me from every angle. As he does so, I am vaguely aware of the
other slaves being whip-driven from the stables to begin their day's
labours.

"Dumb ass! Let you and me get to understand one another. Whenever I speak -
YOU JUMP!  Do you understand me boy?"

"Yes Sir!"

"SPEAK UP, BOY! When I speak to you I want to hear you answer me loudly and
clearly. I don't want to hear any mumbling or stuttering. DO YOU UNDERSTAND
ME?"

"YES SIR!" I answer in a loud and concise tone which pleases the young
overseer.

"Good boy! You learn quickly, slave. Perhaps you're not as dumb as you
look. Now let me lay down the ground rules for your behaviour. ARE YOU
LISTENING?"

"YES SIR!"

"Good! Then listen carefully for I'm only going to tell you once. The first
thing you need to remember is that your Master has placed you under my
control. Do you understand that, boy?"

"YES SIR!"

"Well then! The most important thing for you to understand is that I am in
charge; I give the orders and you obey IMMEDIATELY AND WITHOUT A SECOND
THOUGHT. I'll only ever tell you something once so LISTEN CAREFULLY to what
I tell you.  Do you understand me, boy?"

"YES SIR!"

"Good boy! I like that. Always remember to answer me loud and clear."

"YES SIR!"

"And remember to always show the proper respect, not just to me, but to all
the overseers."

"YES SIR!"

"And boy! Don't let my age fool you. I may be younger than you but I do
intend to control you as your Master and Mr Jackson have instructed me
to. If you upset me, you'll soon feel my whip on your back."

"YES SIR!"

"Tell me, slave. Have you tasted the whip yet?"

"YES SIR! Master used his whip on me as I ran alongside his pony on his way
here yesterday."

You mean his driver's whip? That's not a whip; it's a toy! I mean a real
whip like this one."

The overseer flicks his wrist and I watch as his whip uncoils itself like
some venomous, black snake preparing to strike out at its prey. Some four
to five feet in tapering length, its trails along the floor and it strikes
fear into me.

Only recently, at Claymore Jackson's urging, I had done away with the
old-fashioned bull- whips that had been in use at La Foret since time
immemorial and replaced them, again on Claymore's recommendation, with
imported sjambok whips from Africa. These are made from closely plaited
strips of hippopotamus or rhinoceros hide and are so much more effective
than the older type of whips still used by most slave-owners. Certainly,
reports I had received as Lucien Barrois, suggest they were instrumental in
increasing the plantation's slaves daily output quite considerably.

I gaze in fascinated horror at Sir Conn's whip. Its effect on me is
hypnotic; I am spellbound by its sinister beauty.

It's true! I haven't as yet felt a real whip on my body. But that is about
to change.

"Turn around boy! Put your hands on top of your head!"

I read the intent of the overseer's instruction to me. Instinctively, I
know he is about to put his whip to my back. Fearfully, I hesitate and I
earn his justifiable wrath.

"Slave, I said turn around and put your hands on top of your head. DO IT!
NOW!"

Trembling, I brace myself by placing my feet apart and straightening my
body. Fearfully, I now wait for the lash to strike.  My mind is besieged by
troublesome thoughts. Uppermost is how will I re-act to the whip?

On occasions, I have been witness to slaves being whipped and one thing
that now occurs to me is the various ways in which they responded to the
whip. Some were stoic and maintained a stubborn silence as the lash cut
into their flesh. Others vented their frustrated rage by shouting abuse at
their overseers and thereby earning more punishment for their
troubles. Others simply screamed or whimpered. I decide I will try and
maintain my silence.

But I am about to find that no amount of physical or mental preparation can
prepare you for the agony of the whip.

Behind me I hear the sharp crack of the whip as Sir Conn takes deliberate
aim at my unprotected back. I listen to the whip's fearful whine as it
travels through the resisting air and the loud "thwack" as it wraps itself
around my upper back and chest. Momentarily, I am winded; then my lungs
explode with my agonised scream of pain. Even before my scream subsides, I
feel the sharp tug as Sir Conn pulls the whip away from me. But my respite
is all too brief. Now, the lash reaches out and coils itself around my
lower back and belly and once more I hear my disembodied scream.  I look
down and see that I am held in the whip's painful embrace; its sinuous
coils wrap around me with python like constriction. I hear my soft sob of
pain as once again Sir Conn yanks the lash from my body.

"Well slave, you have now tasted a real whip. You can expect to feel it
much more. It will be a part of your life from now on. GET USED TO IT,
BOY!"

"YES SIR!"

I have no other recourse but to agree wholeheartedly with this youth who
now controls me so completely.

My body is aflame with the unbearable pain of the whip and I am convinced
Sir Conn has laid open my back and that I am bleeding profusely. But I am
wrong.

Mindful of my Master's instruction that I'm not to suffer permanent damage
or disfigurement, Claymore Jackson has had Sir Conn practise his whip
strokes on some unfortunate wretches in the field -gangs whilst he waited
for my arrival at La Forˆt. They weren't as fortunate as me; his initial
inexperience ensured they suffered much.

But as they say - practice does makes perfect - and Sir Conn applied
himself diligently to the task of mastering the finer techniques of using
the whip. He is now quite adept at delivering a stroke that engenders the
maximum amount of pain without breaking the skin.

And I will be a living testament to his adroitness with the whip.



To be continued.......