Date: Wed, 26 Oct 2011 04:44:20 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circunstances" Chapter 45 Gay Male/Authoritarian
"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES'
A Sequel to 'A Reversal of Fortune'
Chapter 45: "The Quarries"
This is s story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
An archive of all my stories can be found at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
"The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and
shouldn't be used without permission"
Chapter 45: "The Quarries"
The difficulties I'd faced on the water-wheel paled into nothingness when
compared to the six weeks I spent as a member of a team of twenty, heavy
duty, draft slaves.
My time spent in the team exposed me to further horrors of my
slavery. There I learned I was no longer an individual but merely a single
entity that existed for the good of the whole. I learned that, on my own,
my efforts were puny. However when combined with the strength of another
nineteen slaves, I became a powerful unit of labour. With my fellow slaves,
I learned to pull heavy loads over long distances for sustained periods of
time.
In the team, I learned to close my mind to all inconsequential things and
to concentrate only on the task my overseers had set before me. I learned
to attune my mind and body to those of my unfortunate brethren and to act
in unison with them.
I learned to respond to all the commands given to us - and I have to say
the whip was a powerful motivator - to stop and stand docilely as our dray
was loaded or unloaded and to move off briskly when commanded to do so. I
learned to pull with all my brute strength and add it to that of the other
slaves in my team. When more exertion was demanded of us, I learned to draw
on hidden reserves of strength that I never knew I had.
For all practical purposes I was a member of the team - I shared their
yokes and chains - and yet in reality I wasn't one of them. The
contradiction for this lies in the fact that my time with them was to be
temporary; at the end of six weeks I would be removed from among them to
begin the third and final part of my training to become a pony for my
Master.
This lack of permanence and the fact that I spent my nights alone and
locked away in my security cage meant I had no fellowship with them. But
this was a mixed blessing in that I was spared the nightly degradations to
which the weaker slaves were subjected. Nevertheless I felt an acute
loneliness and I missed Norge so much.
And not least of the barriers which separated us was their animosity toward
me. Somehow, through the medium of the clandestine communication system
which operates within all slave herds, they knew me. They knew me as the
person who'd once owned and exploited them. And who can blame them for the
resentment they displayed towards me as their former Master or deny them
the pleasure of seeing me suffer as they suffered.
I spent my nights in the stables which had so fascinated me as a boy and a
youth. I recalled that I'd been erotically attracted by their earthiness
and odour. Then, I'd truly loved the headiness that permeated the stables;
the freshly strewn straw bedding for the slaves to sleep on, the manly
sweat of their labours and myriad other smells associated with a large
number of naked, incarcerated men. These had served to re-enforce the
"animal" status of the slave in my mind and there is irony in that; for now
I added my own essence to theirs'.
I discovered these stables were different to the barracks where I had spent
the nights of my first six weeks. Here, we were categorised as draft slaves
rather than field-hands and we were stabled with the ponies; although each
pony had the luxury of his own individual stall whilst the drafts slept
communally. But one thing we all shared - both drafts and ponies alike -
were the heavy, night-time shackles around our wrists and ankles.
Since my enslavement there have been several defining events which marked
my transition from freedom into bitter servitude. Among these have been the
collaring, the brandings, and the inspections of my naked body together
with the use of me as a sexual plaything for my superiors. But all these
can't be compared to the trauma of that day when Judge Matthews had
declared me to be slave-born and returned me to my slave birth right.
Obviously that was the defining moment of my life but my placement in the
team of heavy duty draft slaves ranks not far behind. The appalling
conditions I endured as an anonymous beast-of-burden will stay with me
until my death.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The quarries are some three miles distant from La Foret and to reach them
one has to travel along a narrow, rutted road that meanders through the
forest clad hills which are a feature of this area. The route is a tortuous
one that dips and rises over steep, stony banks and shallow streams several
times over the length of its course.
The quarries have been in operation for many years as is evidenced by the
tree-clearing and the deep scarring of the rocky hillsides from which are
hewn the massive building blocks so favoured by city dwellers for their
homes
The stone quarried here is of the very best quality and is popular with
architects and builders alike. Strong and durable - and an attractive
sandstone-yellow in colour - it is used extensively to build the faux
European castles and chateaux of the noveau riche and to construct the
grand temples of commerce which tower over the Central Business District of
the distant capital city.
The quarry is home to hundreds of miserable, naked slaves who toil
ceaselessly under the lash and whose bodies are seasonally blasted by the
fierce, summer heat or chilled by the cold, winter winds. Some of these
poor wretches are employed at cutting the roughly hewn blocks from the
resisting quarry face and others are charged by the whips of their
overseers with fine dressing the building blocks ready for shipment, by
river, downstream to the city.
To stand on the rim of the quarry and to peer down through the heat haze
into its depth is to glimpse another world. It is a different dimension
with almost biblical connotations where lost souls are condemned to
perpetual labour and eternal torment.
The sights and sounds of that labour drift up and overwhelm the
senses. Everywhere is heard the clunking and rasping of metal on stone as
the blocks are cut away and pried loose from the terraces which climb the
quarry face like some giant's stairway, the constant tap, tap, tapping of
hammers and chisels as other slaves dress the massive stone blocks, the
abusive exhortations of the overseers, the loud cracking of whips and the
anguished cries of the slaves as the lash falls across their unprotected
backs.
Hanging over the quarry like an invisible, sinister miasma is the reeking
stench of slavery. Wafting up from the quarry floor is the malodorous
smell of human suffering and degradation. The scent of unwashed,
sweat-soaked bodies, of urine and excrement and of fear and misery fouls
the air.
Reduced in size by the lofty height of the quarry wall, the wretched slaves
resemble a swarm of industrious ants attacking a tasty morsel of food. Bent
to their labours, the slaves' heat-blasted and sun-blackened bodies glisten
beneath the sheen of their work induced sweat.
Who are these miserable creatures? What slaves toil here and what criteria
are used to determine their suitability for the soul-destroying labour of
the stone quarries?
Predominately, they are the incorrigible and the recalcitrant who have
proved too difficult for their masters to tame. Such slaves are sold to the
quarries as punishment for their non- cooperation and disobedience. Others
are longer serving domestic slaves who, nearing the end of their productive
lives, have been sold cheaply to the quarry-owners to allow their former
masters to replace them with younger, primer stock. Among these are the
former pleasure-slaves, who because of their fading physical beauty, have
been cast from the warm comfort of their masters' beds into the slow,
lingering death of the stone quarries.
And toiling amidst this seething mass of tortured humanity is the slave,
Cato, formerly the proud chief steward of the once illustrious but now
discredited Barrois family,
He is now just another nameless slave doomed to spend the remainder of his
shortened existence in the unrelenting drudgery of a quarry.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
As Lucien Barrois, I wasn't a stranger to the quarries. Indeed during my
boyhood and adolescent years I'd been a sometimes visitor to them.
For several generations the quarries have belonged to the Fournier family,
who with the Barrois family, can trace their ancestral origins back to
Pre-Revolutionary France. Emigres - like the original Jean-Marc de
Barrois - they'd found sanctuary and great prosperity in the New World.
The current head of the Fournier family is Louis-Phillipe and I attended
boarding-school with his three sons, Thierry, Stephane and Francois. The
youngest of the three boys is Francois who is my age. In fact we were in
the same class and slept in the same dormitory at school and though we
weren't the closest of friends, we rowed in the school's Octuple sculls and
so we did socialise.
To relieve the boredom of school holidays, Francois would occasionally
spend time with me at La Foret or I would visit him at the Fournier
plantation adjacent to the quarries. And one of our favourite pastimes was
to visit the quarries and watch the slaves at their labours.
Like my grandfather's stables at La Foret, the quarries and its slaves were
a source of great interest to me. Francois and I were free to roam at will
around the quarries providing we didn't hinder the slaves in their
labours. The nature of work in the quarries was so different to the field
work of La Foret's slaves. It was harder, more intensive and it always
seemed to me that the slaves were subject to sterner discipline than was
the case with my grandfather's slaves.
The quarries were hives of activities as the slaves were driven to ever
greater effort. The whips of the overseers were never still. They whistled
and crackled through the air continually urging on the slaves in their
herculean feats of strength and were answered by the agonised cries of pain
re- echoing back from the quarry walls.
There was so much for Francois and me to see. We'd watch the teams of
slaves swarming over the face of the quarry as they toiled to cut the
heavy, stone blocks free from their prison with nothing more mechanical or
sophisticated than hammers and chisels, picks and crowbars.
The stress this placed on the slaves' naked bodies highlighted the play of
their work- hardened muscles and this provided me with guilty pleasure. At
first, I wasn't sure of why this display of strong muscle and raw energy
affected me. As a pre-pubescent boy I felt excitement but didn't quite know
why. Later, I came to know why and my hard erections showed my appreciation
of the erotic scenes being played out all around me. And as a pubescent
youth, I no longer felt my schoolboy guilt!
And I particularly liked watching the slaves from behind. I loved the
sensuous tightening of their asses and the rippling of their back muscles
as their hammers and picks rose and fell.
Francois and I would watch until we grew bored and looking for something
new to titillate us, we'd wander to another part of the quarry to watch as
other slaves performed different tasks.
We'd watch as these slaves used their hammers and chisels to chip away the
sharp edges and to smooth the facing surfaces of the huge building
stones. At the time, such things never intruded into my boyish mind but
later, as an adult, I did notice the chisel marks - each unique to the
slave whose work it was - on the building blocks of many a fine city
building. And as I did so, memories of the Fournier quarries and the naked
slaves busily chiselling away at their allotted stones came flooding back.
There wasn't any waste in the quarries. Even these fragments and stone
chippings were carefully gathered up and carried to the crushing plants in
deep baskets borne on the backs of slaves bent almost double under their
intolerable weight. Here they were reduced to either road metal or gravel
size by the monstrous grinding stones.
The Fournier's had always prided themselves on their environmentally,
friendly work practices. They didn't rely on fuel guzzling machinery
preferring instead to use the muscle and sinew of their slaves. Here, no
machines belched polluting fumes into the atmosphere or disturbed the air
with their ear-shattering roar. The creak and groan of the slave-driven
capstans were barely audible over the sound of the hammers and picks of the
slaves labouring at the quarry face.
Once the stones were dressed and ready for shipping, a small team of slaves
manhandled them onto sleds and dragged them along a tramway to the
river-front some half mile distant. Here they were loaded onto flat barges
for transportation to the city.
True to their environmental practices, the Fournier's didn't waste fossil
fuels on the shipping of the stones. Each barge was towed behind an oar
driven vessel. Each vessel was equipped with twenty oars and chained to
each oar were three naked slaves,
As a boy and a youth, I always received a thrill from watching the slaves
take to the oars and begin the journey down river to the city. Fran?ois and
I would stand and watch as the slaves bent to their oars under the whips of
their overseers. Always, I was reminded of the galley slaves who featured
in the books that were my favourite reading.
In recent times, I'd lost contact with Francois. As I said we were
acquaintances rather than firm friends. After leaving school we simply
drifted apart and went our separate ways.
However, I know that Louis-Phillipe Fournier has stepped back from his many
business interests and now allows his three sons to play greater roles in
the operations of the family's companies. I know the oldest son Thierry
lives in the city as the CEO of the Fournier enterprises while Stephane,
the second son manages the family's plantation.
And my old school companion, Francois has been placed in charge of the
quarries. In fact, I see him ahead in the distance as I strain into my
chains drawing the empty dray behind me.
It is several years since I last visited the quarries as Lucien. Today, I
return as the draft slave, Rafe.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
"WHOA! WHOA!"
Our driver's shouted command halts us alongside a gravel-heap twice the
height of a man. We don't need extra encouragement to stop; all twenty of
us are thankful for this break in the tedium of hauling a heavy dray behind
us. This is more the case for me; as yet I am unused to long sustained
pulling in a team of drafts. In fact this is only my second day of such
labour.
Yesterday, I had been paired with another slave, sharing a wooden yoke with
him and chained into a team of twenty drafts whose task it was to pull a
heavy, flat-topped dray between the fields and the processing mills.
Here my perceptions of slavery and of myself were seriously challenged. It
would be hard to explain to another how I felt. The wooden yoke I shared
with my 'twin' weighed heavily across my shoulders and also on my soul. But
then I wonder - do slaves possess souls? It would be interesting to know if
our owners thought so. Or are they so steeped in their self- absorbed greed
that they see us as mindless, soulless beasts-of-burden? It would seem so!
And it was never a question that troubled Lucien Barrois!
Certainly, as I strained into my chains and pulled with every fibre of my
being and pushed with every ounce of my strength, I felt my animal-like
status.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
This morning, I was woken, fed and watered, given a few brief minutes to
void my bladder and bowels and then placed in my harness chains.
The overseers worked efficiently and speedily to make us ready for our
day's labour. My nineteen companions were well-rehearsed and knew what was
expected of them. I, on the other hand, stood perplexed not knowing what to
do.
I watched as my team-mates paired off and knelt on the ground. There was
order in what they did; like well-trained animals they knew what our
handlers expected of them. The slaves seemed to know to which pair they
belonged and they also knew the order of their allotted placement within
the team. Soon, all nineteen slaves were kneeling in their pairs in five
rows of four abreast. However, one slave was unpaired - my yoke companion
from yesterday - and he knelt alone in the fourth row. He is to be my
team-mate again today and for all the days to follow for the next six
weeks.
If I was uncertain, then so was my handler Sir Conn. Because of my special
circumstances he is to remain with me and to supervise me in my labours. I
didn't know that Claymore Jackson had forbidden any overseer other than Sir
Conn to put the whip to my back. This is in accordance with my Master's
instructions that I am not to be permanently marked by the lash.
My special status will see me remain a "clean-back" whereas my team-mates
wear the layered criss-crossed pattern of the heavy whip. Those stripes
tell a grim story. The first layer consists of the reddish scar tissue
placed there over considerable time. Superimposed on these are the more
recent purple stripes congealing into hardening scabs and the fresher,
bloody ones from the latest cuts of the lash. Very soon, I will see at
firsthand how deadly efficient the whip is at laying open a naked back.
Usually, it only requires one overseer to drive a team successfully. I am
to find that all he needs to do is to ride on the dray; issue commands to
his charges and apply his whip to the team when it becomes necessary to
urge it along.
I knew Sir Conn had been assigned to assist the overseer in whose team I am
to serve. And during the course of the next six weeks, it will be Sir
Conn's whip that spurs me into action.
Sir Conn hustled me over to the solitary slave and ordered me to kneel on
his right in the outside position. I discovered this is my permanent
placement within the team and each morning, the overseers will expect that
I go to this position without prompting from them.
Once in place, I found the team was numbered consecutively from one to
twenty moving from left to right and front row to rear and that I was
number "sixteen". This meant that for the remainder of my time in the team,
I would be referred to simply as sixteen.
Soon I will become familiar with the shouted commands to "pull sixteen!" or
"sixteen, move your lazy ass!" And often these commands will be given added
emphasis by Sir Conn's whip.
As the heavy wooded yoke was laid across my shoulders - and my companion's
- I thought of the term a "yoke of oxen" once used to describe two oxen
joined together to pull a plough. And I realised that it was so relevant
to my situation. Here, I was just one "yoke of drafts" along with nine
others.
Those preparing us for our day's labours worked efficiently and quickly to
get us ready. In keeping with all the other drafts in my team, leather
blinders were fitted over my head and secured in place by tight, leather
straps.
The blinkers restricted my sight; I no longer had peripheral vision and my
gaze was focused directly ahead. I will discover that this is what is
required of me. As I strain to pull the dray behind me, my sole attention
is on the way ahead and isn't distracted by what is happening elsewhere.
Once yoked into our pairs and fitted with our blinders we were ready to
take our places on either side of the central shaft protruding from the
front of the dray.
The drays in everyday use at La Foret are especially designed to be hauled
by a team of slaves. It is just common sense that a slave - and even one
within a team of burly slaves - isn't as powerful as either a horse or an
ox and so the drays were built with this in mind. They are smaller and
lighter - which makes them more manoeuvrable - and they can be adapted for
a number of uses. They can be used as flat-tops for hauling bags of
fertiliser out into the fields or for bringing in the harvest to the mills.
Fitted with high enclosed crates they are also used for transporting La
Foret's produce and livestock into the surrounding towns for sale on market
days. Today however, my dray has been fitted with high sided, wooden panels
that allows for the cartage of loose gravel from the quarries to the
gardens at La Foret.
Someone, at some time in the past, had worked out that the most efficient
use of a draft team is the "pull-push" method where the slaves not just
pull the load behind them but also use their brute strength to push it
forward. And this is the system in use at La Fort.
I took my place on the right hand side of the central shaft. There were
three yokes of drafts in front of me and one behind and I stood almost
shoulder to shoulder with slave, "fifteen" on my left. At chest height was
the pushing bar which I was instructed to grasp and to which my wrists were
fastened by heavy chains and manacles. This had the effect of inclining my
body forward at an angle suitable for pushing.
Working quickly - for our driver was anxious to be on his way to the
quarries - we were joined together by long chains which connected our yokes
to one another and to the dray. Thus we were ready to begin our journey.
As we waited for the order to move, I had a few moments to look at my
fellow team mates. Before me were three rows of four slaves and if my
hands had been free, I could've reached out and touched the bodies of the
two immediately in front of me; we were that close to one another. My line
of sight was restricted by my blinkers and their naked backs - and asses -
filled my vision.
The long years of hard labour and the constant heavy haulage had
over-developed their bodies to the point of ugliness and their bulging
muscles bordered on the grotesque. Yet they were ideally suited for their
task. Their broad shoulders were heavily muscled and their knotted biceps
bulged in their strong arms whilst powerful muscles rippled and flexed
beneath the sun-blackened skin of their lacerated backs. The corded columns
of their thighs supported the hard, rounded mounds of their tight,
clenching buttocks.
Their unwashed bodies were coated with the patina of fine dust from the
previous day's labours and the stench of their bodies - whilst distasteful
to the overseers - was proving an attraction to the myriad flies and other
insects which, like honey bees attracted to a pollen laden flower, swarmed
over their nakedness feeding on their uncleanliness.
It was still early morning when the order was given for us to "walk on" and
as yet we weren't sweating. The sun was still low in the east and suspended
in a cloudless, delft-blue sky which gave promise of a hot day.
The order to "walk on" was accompanied by the cracking of a whip over our
bowed heads and bent backs. As one, all nineteen of my companions strained
forward against their pushing bars and the dray lurched into motion. I had
no other choice but to add my efforts to those of the team.
I was surprised that the dray moved so smoothly. Lucien Barrois had never
concerned himself with their construction. Had he done so, he would have
seen they are constructed of a wooden platform mounted on a sturdy,
lightweight metal frame and that the axles and wheels are carefully
balanced for ease of movement.
Yet despite the lightweight construction and the free moving mechanism of
the wheels, the dray demanded that we put all of our strength into moving
it forward. As I looked straight ahead, I could see the enormous strain
this placed on a draft slave's body. Every muscle is under stress, every
sinew stretched to its limit and every tendon is almost at snapping point.
My blinkered view of the world was limited to the two slaves immediately in
front of me. Their angled backs showed the strain of their labours and
their pendulous balls hung low and heavy between their massive
thighs. Their cocks and scrotums swung freely with their forward movements
and like the weighted pendulum of a clock, they "tic-tocked" from side to
side in unison with each plodding step.
And obscenely, as I looked at them, I saw their ass-cracks were stretched
wide open and their puckering, rosy-pink orifices were exposed to my view.
I realised that the slaves immediately behind me - and by my calculation
they were numbers "nineteen" and "twenty"- had a similar view of me and my
yoke-mate. I could feel the stress in my body and felt the tension in every
taut muscle and stretched sinew. But most acutely, I felt the strain placed
on my own puckering ass-hole; I could feel it winking obscenely at the
slaves who lumbered along behind me.
It's estimated that a healthy male can walk three miles - or five
kilometres - an hour and on that reckoning it should only have taken us an
hour to reach the quarries. Certainly, I and my fellow slaves are fit - our
labours have made us so - and under normal conditions we'd have no trouble
meeting this target.
But we were pulling a load behind us - and although the dray was empty - it
stilled slowed us. And the undulating road to the quarries alternated
between long, gradual inclines and shorter, steeper ones with their
corresponding descents. And these did slow us down. It was at these times
that the whips of our driver and Sir Conn were brought into play and the
backs of my unfortunate companions were scourged to extract the last ounce
of effort from their tired, aching bodies. I was more fortunate in that Sir
Conn held back in his use of the whip on me. Nevertheless, I was
occasionally subjected to the whip's persuasiveness and like my fellow
slaves I applied myself with renewed vigour.
I was thankful for the early morning coolness as we set out. However,
before we reached the quarries, I was perspiring profusely and my sweat
added to my torments. With my wrists shackled to the pushing-bar, I
couldn't wipe my brow and the saltiness of my sweat stung my eyes and
nostrils and attracted swarms of biting, stinging insects to my body.
The road we travelled was one that led nowhere other than to the quarries
and so the only traffic we met were other drays similarly employed to our
own but travelling in the opposite direction.
Occasionally, our driver would stop to converse with the driver of another
dray and I welcomed these short rests from my labours. While our drivers
laughed and joked, we drafts had time to recover a little before resuming
our journey. Enviously we watched as they slaked their thirst while our
parched throats screamed for the soothing balm of fresh, sweet tasting
water. But no water was given to us; we had to wait until we reached the
quarries before we could slake our raging thirsts.
Inevitably, there was a downside to these rest-breaks. When the order was
given once more to "walk on" it took a lot of effort to start the dray
moving and our two overseers, anxious to make up the time lost in
socialising, would lash out savagely with their whips.
I discovered hauling a dray around La Foret's fields was much easier than
travelling on the road. For one thing the fields are mostly flat or gently
undulating. By comparison, the road had very few flat parts and mostly we
seemed to be moving uphill and this of course made out task all the more
difficult. On the uphill stretches, the dead weight of the dray dragged
downhill behind us and slowed our progress which meant we had to struggle
much harder to reach the top. And again we were encouraged by the whips of
Sir Conn and the driver.
On reaching the brow of a hill there was a momentary easing of our labours
before we began our descent which proved infinitely worse than the
ascent. The dray's weight now shifted and instead of holding us back it
pushed us forward with increasing speed. Always, there was this sense that
we had no control and the dray was propelling us forward and we had to
scramble to find a firm purchase for our feet on the road's gravelled
surface.
The dray was equipped with brakes on all four wheels and our driver applied
these hard to slow our descents. This helped to slow the dray's downward
impetus but the brakes' friction only added to our problems. But there was
relief in knowing that the driver was in control of the dray and that it
wouldn't run over the top of us as we awkwardly moved downhill.
I never bothered to count how many hills there were between La Fort and
the quarries. My mind was too pre-occupied with the return journey when we
must once again tackle these same hills - only in reverse and with a full
load of heavy gravel behind us.
I wondered if my Master had given any thought to any of this when he'd
instructed Colton, his major domo to put fresh gravel on the garden paths
in readiness for his grandmother's triumphal return to the plantation after
the long years of her banishment.
I'd decided that he hadn't and why would he? He'd issued an instruction; it
was to be carried out and the suffering it caused his slaves was of no
concern to him. I know this because in similar circumstances, Lucien
Barrois wouldn't have considered his slaves.
Colton, in conjunction with Claymore Jackson, has decided that it isn't
unreasonable for us to haul back three loads of gravel each day. The
quantity of gravel Colton requires for the pathways will be determined day
by day and just how many days it will take to meet his quota is
unknown. Our Master had given Colton "carte blanche" to get the job done
and he will take his time to ensure that Guy Maratier is pleased with the
end results. Perhaps it will add to his is productivity bonus!
Suddenly, when I thought I could go no further relief is at hand. We have
descended our last hill and are entering the quarry. Soon we'll rest and
we'll be given water to slake our parched throats while the quarry-slaves,
equipped with large mouthed shovels, will quickly load gravel onto our
dray. Our respite will be brief and we need to make the most of it before
we are whipped into action to begin our return journey to La Foret.
Our driver stops us by a gravel heap twice my height and I look around at
the familiar surroundings of the quarries I'd known as a boy. I see
wretched slaves still toil in the furnace-like heat of the quarries
relentlessly driven on by the impatient shouts and angry whips of their
overseers. All too clearly, I see their pain and I hear their anguish.
Nothing has changed!
My view is restricted by my blinkers but in my line of vision I see my
former school friend, Francois Fournier walking towards us. Following a
respectful pace or two behind him, a naked slave carries a large umbrella
to shade his Master's fair complexion from the sun's increasing heat.
All too vividly, I remember the day when I'd served as an umbrella slave to
my Master at Lionel Schuster's slave-market and the shame I'd felt.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Yesterday, Colton had been in contact with Francois Fournier to place an
order for the gravel. Francois - conscious of the recent change of
ownership at La Foret and with an eye to doing future business with the new
Maratier owners - had promised the major domo that he'd attend to his order
personally.
Besides, his curiosity had been aroused!
He wonders what has become of his old school acquaintance and rowing
partner, Lucien Barrois. He knows Lucien is now a slave - well, didn't
everyone - but where is he? Does he toil in the fields of the plantation
that had once belonged to him? Has he been sold to a new owner?
Or is he a house slave back in the city serving his former great-aunt
Charlotte Maratier? Perhaps he even graces his new Master's bedroom as his
body slave and bed-buck?
Francois recalls those times when he and Lucien had swum naked in the
nearby river. Even then, Lucien had all the attributes of a desirable
pleasure slave. And the delicious curves of Lucien's shapely ass had always
invited Francois' furtive glances in the showers and dressing-sheds after a
rowing practice while they were still at school.
He'd never admitted to it but as a teenager he'd lusted after Lucien. There
were times when, after a swim, he and Lucien had rested side by side on the
river bank drying in the sun's warmth and he'd fantasised about using
Lucien's ass or having Lucien's mouth accept his cock into its warm, moist
embrace.
And he asked himself, how many times had he flipped over onto his belly in
a desperate attempt to hide an embarrassing erection from Lucien? There
were too many times to remember accurately. But Lucien had always had an
erotic effect upon him.
He'd lost contact with Lucien once their time at boarding-school
finished. He regretted that!
Over the intervening years he'd heard whispers from those jealous of him
that Lucien Barrois was gay and that he had a liking for handsome, young,
male slaves. If this was so, then it is a penchant that Francois also
shared with his former dormitory mate.
Francois had wondered if the rumours were true. Certainly, he knew that
Lucien had never married and even within the social pages his name had
never been paired with that of a frivolous debutante or a calculating
socialite.
Francois accepted that the rumours were most likely true; and he regretted
what he saw as the "lost opportunities" of his and Lucien's youth.
Since Lucien's "fall", Francois hadn't heard that he'd been sold. But he is
no longer called Lucien. What is the name Guy Maratier has given him? Ah,
yes! He remembers; it is Rafe and there is a story in circulation that Guy
Maratier had named him after a small, black and white, mongrel dog from his
boyhood.
He wonders how the proud, aristocratic school friend from his boyhood has
adapted to his changed circumstances.
Francois intends to find out. He'll ask the driver if he knows what has
become of Rafe.
To be continued........