Date: Fri, 18 Nov 2011 15:47:35 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject:  "Changed Circumstances' Chapter 47  Gay Male/Authoritarian

"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES"
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 47: A Waste of Time and Effort

This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of
eighteen years

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): November, 2011
An archive of 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 47: A Waste of Time and Effort

Over the next three days, I got to know the road between La Foret and the
Fournier quarries intimately. I became acquainted with every steep incline,
every sharp bend, every rut and every deep pothole. I came to appreciate
the 'easy' trips to the quarry when we pulled an empty wagon behind us and
I learned to dread the return trip with a full load of gravel.

On our return to La Foret, Colton, the major domo would be waiting
impatiently at the double entrance gates into the gardens with his team of
slaves ready to unload us as quickly as possible so that we could return,
without delay, to the quarries for our next load. From Colton's
perspective, no time could be wasted and he'd asked Claymore Jackson for an
additional slave-gang and for two overseers to assist in driving his slaves
that much harder.

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

Claymore's chief concern is to ensure that the harvest - now at its peak -
continues without interruption. Secretly, he cursed Guy Maratier's
insistence that the garden paths be re-gravelled at this time. Really, he
needs every slave and every wagon in the fields and the loss of even this
one wagon and its team of drafts presents him with a problem.

The problem isn't insurmountable -it is more of an annoyance - but it does
run counter to his orderly organisation of the plantation, its workforce
and their overseers. In order to take up the slack created by the absence
of this wagon, he will need to drive the other slaves employed on the
harvest that much harder.

Claymore, always the stern task-master, ensures that the plantation's
slaves work at full capacity at all times. Now he has to coax that little
extra from them and the overseers' whips are never still as they demand
even more from an already fully extended workforce.

Damn the man! Either Guy has no understanding of how a plantation should
operate or he doesn't care. Charitably, Claymore gives Guy the benefit of
the doubt - it could be that his inexperience is to blame. He'll need to
work with La Foret's new owner to ensure this doesn't happen in the future.

Claymore reflects this would never have happened back in old Jean-Claude
Barrois' day. Why even young Lucien knew better and never intruded into the
chief overseer's area of responsibility. This thought of Lucien reminds him
that the slave Rafe is a member of this very same team now hauling the
gravel at Guy's insistence.

In fairness, Claymore knows this isn't Colton's fault - he's as annoyed
with Guy as he is - and he has grudgingly agreed to give the major domo
some minimal assistance. But he'd baulked at two overseers. He could
provide him with one and he'd delegated that task to Regis. And really
Regis is as good as two and his whip would ensure that Colton's work-gang
kept their minds focused on their work and their backs bent to the task.

And he can't spare any of his field-slaves to supplement Colton's garden
slaves. If the task is beyond them, then the major domo will have to use
his house slaves. And anyway, a stint at real slave work could benefit them
nicely.

Claymore is the first to admit the 'house-boys' originally chosen by Lucien
are a delight to look at with their handsome features and eye-candy
physiques but he'd always thought a periodic stint at real slave labour
would work wonders with their bodies.

He'd suggested this to Lucien on several occasions but to no avail.

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

Altogether, I spent three days hauling gravel from the quarries to La
Foret's gardens. It was three days of unrelenting toil and backbreaking
labour. And unimaginable suffering!

Initially, Claymore, in consultation with Colton, had allocated two days
for us to complete the task.  After inspecting the garden paths, they'd
reasoned it would take six loads of gravel and it was decided that we were
to make three return trips a day. And in the interests of time, Claymore
had ordered that we were to return to La Forõ€•˜ with a 'full
load' and not 'part of a load.'

However, theory is one thing and when put into practice it can become
entirely different. It proved physically impossible for us to meet
Claymore's timetable and demands.

Despite the incessant demands of our driver and Sir Conn we struggled to
meet Claymore's schedule. And much to his chagrin, we weren't able to
manage more than two trips a day. In his single-mindedness, it never
occurred to Claymore to lessen our load or to extend the time limit he'd
imposed upon us. To do so would be to admit that he'd miscalculated and
he'd see this as a loss of face. And Claymore isn't one who'll lose face to
a team of slaves. On our second trip to the quarry - and all subsequent
ones - he sent Sir Regis along to assist the driver and Sir Conn.

The journey from La Foret to the quarries was relatively easy. With an
empty dray behind us we managed the three mile trip in good time. It was
only when we began the return trip that we experienced difficulties. Our
heavy load slowed us down and each time we approached a hill we stalled. It
wasn't that we didn't try - we did and the whips of our three slave-drivers
ensured that we tried our hardest.

The stillness of the countryside was disturbed by the furious cracking of
whips and the abusive language of our three whip-masters. The sound of
leather striking our naked flesh and our cries of pain reverberated through
the surrounding forest. Our laboured breathing and the rattling of the
wagon's wheels on the gravelled road surface drowned out all other sound.

We struggled with that first load and it was a foretaste of what was to
come with the five that followed. All twenty of us responded to the whip as
best we could but even its excessive use wasn't enough to speed us up. All
our strength was expended in just keeping the wagon moving forward - albeit
slowly.

That day, I learned that even the whip has its limitations; I discovered
there is a point to which a slave can be driven. There is ultimately a
threshold to which a slave can be taken and it is both emotionally and
physically impossible for him to breach it. No matter how hard or how often
the lash is applied to a slave when he has reached the limits of his
physical endurance, he can give no more of himself. Beyond that point the
whip becomes ineffectual.

That first return journey back to La Foret will remain with me for always.

As we turned from the road into the sweeping driveway leading up to the
house and its gardens, I knew that I was to enjoy a temporary respite as
the garden slaves unloaded the gravel. With a slave's docile acceptance, I
now looked forward to any rest - no matter how brief it is. And who knows -
perhaps I'll be given water to slake my thirst and have time to empty my
bladder before we return to the quarry.

Claymore stood with Colton at the garden gates impatiently waiting for our
return. Angrily, he berated our driver for our slowness and refused to
accept any excuses for our 'laziness'. It was then that he decided that
Regis would accompany us on all our trips to and from the quarries. Darkly,
he said that an extra whip might "hurry us along."

But even Sir Regis whip couldn't speed up our return trips hauling a
heavily loaded wagon.  Reluctantly, Claymore accepted - with bad grace -
that he needed to allocate an extra day and so our two days of torment
turned into three.

That first trip, we docilely moved along the garden paths halting when
ordered to do so as the garden slaves - their numbers now augmented by the
house boys - shovelled furiously to unload the gravel.

Thoughtfully, Colton had provided cool drinks and sandwiches for our driver
and Sir Conn.  Gratefully, they thanked Colton and then rested in a shady
spot on the lawns to enjoy their welcome snack as we continued to labour.

How I envied them!

My throat was dry and my belly rumbled with its hunger pangs. But there
would be no food for either me or my fellow slaves until evening.  However,
we were given a generous amount of water to drink and for this I was most
thankful.

Then, once the gravel had been unloaded, we began our trip back to the
quarries for a second load.

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

La Foret's gardens have never looked better. Always a source of pride to
the Barrois family, no effort or expense was ever spared in maintaining
their immaculate appearance.

It was my grandmother who, as a new bride, enthusiastically set about
restoring La Foret's dilapidated manor and its neglected gardens to their
former glory.  She'd inherited these as the new Mistress of the household
and with her inherent good taste - and unlimited funds from my doting
grandfather - she restored both the house and its surrounding gardens to
their once former glory as the ancestral seat of the Barrois family.

Today both the house and its gardens stand as fitting memorials to her.

Colton is sparing neither his house nor garden slaves in making both ready
for the impending visit of the family's new matriarch, Charlotte
Maratier. My Master has determined her return to the ancestral home, from
which she'd been banished all those years ago, is to have all the hallmarks
of a triumphal homecoming.

However, more than anything, her return is to highlight the ascendancy of
the new Maratier dynasty and the downfall of the now disgraced Barrois
family.

And I have played my part in his plans by working as a draft slave in
helping to prepare the gardens for Charlotte's visit.

For Lucien, the gardens had always been a haven of serenity and peaceful
seclusion. As I'd strolled along its shaded paths or rested under a stately
tree, I'd taken for granted the garden's tranquillity.  And never once had
I thought about the unhappy slaves who toiled under Colton's harsh
discipline to maintain them for my pleasure.

Now, as the slave Rafe, I've had first-hand experience of the effort that
goes into maintaining La Foret's garden. I have struggled in my chains and
felt the sting of the lash in helping to prepare them for Charlotte's
visit.

All the activities are personally supervised by Colton with just an
occasional visit from an impatient Claymore who remains annoyed at this
interruption to the good running of the plantation.

Colton for his part is 'liverish' and shows his bad temper with his
continual, loud haranguing of us and the constant use of his cane on our
backs and asses. Even I'm not exempted and more than once, I felt the swish
of his cane across my shoulders. But I am luckier than his garden
slaves. Over the three days, I lose count of how many of these unfortunates
he sentences to punishment in 'The Yard' at day's end.

Finally, we have returned from the quarries with our last load of gravel
and now wait patiently as it is unloaded and spread evenly over the last
section of pathway. I caste my eyes around the gardens and sadly reflect
that once they'd belonged to me.

Despite this and the torments of the past three days, I am still able to
appreciate their beauty. The soft honey-gold of the gravel both contrasts
and complements the verdant green of the shadow- dappled lawns and the
subtle blending of colours in the adjacent flower-beds.

Slowly, yard by yard, we move the dray forward to allow the slaves to
unload and spread the gravel; as we do so our bare feet and the wagon's
wheels make scrunching noises in the loose surface. I remember how as a
young boy - and it all seems so long ago now - I would walk these same
paths with my grandmother mischievously scrunching my feet through the
loose gravel. Fondly, I recall how she'd indulgently chide me.

"Lucien dear! Stop scrunching and lift your feet. You'll soon wear out the
toes of your shoes if you keep dragging your feet in the gravel."

The memory of this is a bitter-sweet one.

At last! The last of the gravel is unloaded and we leave the garden slaves
to continue with their work as impatiently, Sir Regis orders us into the
fields. There is still much work to be done there. The harvest, which is
now in full swing, awaits us.

And Colton is pleased with the final results of our labours!  La Foret's
mansion house and gardens are at their immaculate best and they are now
ready for Charlotte Maratier's 'homecoming'.

Over the next six weeks, as I labour in the fields, I'm to become aware of
momentous events taking place back in the city. I will, at first, hear of
these as gossip between the overseers or on the slave grapevine and I will
learn more from Norge much later when my Master pays La Foret a visit.

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

Guy Maratier had plans well underway for his grandmother's return to La
Foret. He'd recently installed her in her own household and supplied her
with enough slaves to ensure she lived the lifestyle to which she's now
entitled. And he'd made a present to her of his personal body-slave, Ben
who serves as her chief steward.

He'd regretted parting with Ben for whom he'd formed an attachment not just
for his winning ways in the bedchamber but also for his ability in
organising his household and controlling his house- servants. After the
fiasco with the luckless Pollux, who Guy had chosen to replace Cato as his
major domo, it was Ben who'd emerged as the as the new replacement; a move
strongly advocated of by his grandmother.

Uncharacteristically, Charlotte had taken a 'shine' to Ben and so it
followed that of all his house slaves Ben would best serve her needs as
controller of her household. Much as my Master regretted losing Ben, he
could deny his beloved grandmother nothing. He loved her that much.

And Lionel Schuster had made good with his offer to find two identical
slaves to serve as bearers of the special sedan chair which Guy had
commissioned as a conveyance for the elderly Charlotte.  These two slaves
are identical twin brothers and Lionel Schuster never revealed exactly how
he'd come by them and true to his word, Guy never asked. But as promised,
he rewarded the slave-trader with a generous bonus.

Charlotte delighted to be seen from the comfort of her ornate sedan chair
as it was carried by the two brawny brothers through the city's
streets. Imperiously, she'd slightly incline her head or give a regal wave
of the hand in recognition of some nonentity now clamouring to make her
acquaintance.

However, all the past slights and insults that she and her impoverished
Maratier family had suffered at the hands of the city's elite aren't to be
forgotten. Deep within, her resentment towards them still festers. She will
bide her time and one day, given the opportunity, she will repay kind with
kind.

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

Life is now good for Charlotte. She has been restored to her rightful place
in society and her remaining years as the Maratier family's matriarch
promise to be good ones. And she looks forward to her triumphant return to
her ancestral home, La Foret where she has one final task to perform.

Already she has plans to strip the house of all remaining traces of its
Barrois connection. First to go will be the family portraits of her hated
parents and brother, Jean-Claude and his progeny. These will be taken down
from the walls, cut from their ornate frames and burnt. And then she will
ruthlessly ferret out every last vestige of her upstart great nephew,
Lucien Barrois. His memory is to be expunged for all time and his presence
at La Forõ€•˜ only ever remembered as that of the slave, Rafe.
Only then will she rest content.

Now firmly established in her own household, Charlotte began to make plans
for her return to La Foret. She'd made it her concern to find out as much
as possible about Colton, the major domo and Claymore Jackson, the chief
overseer and what she had learned displeased her. From all accounts both
men had been close to her brother and the usurper, Lucien. This
unilaterally condemned them in her eyes and she was determined both men
would have to go.

Of course, they are free men and paid employees of her grandson so she'll
need to tread carefully. It would be so much easier if they were
slaves. Then, it would be a simple matter to send them to the auction block
much as it had been with the unfortunate Cato. But because they are free
men, she will need to use all her natural cunning to have them
dismissed. But she is equal to the task and like water dripping onto a
stone she'll use her visit to continually find fault with both men and to
gradually erode Guy's confidence in them.

Then, upon her return from La Foret, she will focus all her malevolence on
THAT self-serving lawyer, Simon Barrow. He is fast gaining too much
influence over her grandson and she sees him as a direct challenge to her
authority. This condemns him in her eyes and he too will have to go!

Charlotte now stands formidably at the pinnacle of her new found power as
the matriarch of the Maratier family. She presides over her own household
with an iron fist and is served by a retinue of terrified slaves whose only
role is to pander to her every whim and need or risk dire punishment.  And
aiding and abetting her as house steward is her young slave, Ben.

Ben also has reason to be pleased. His rise to this exalted position - a
highly unusual promotion for such a young slave - had been made possible by
the enslavement of his former Master, Lucien Barrois. An intelligent slave,
he'd acted quickly to distance himself from his former master and he'd
worked assiduously to 'ensnare' his new Master with his not inconsiderable
charms and bedroom skills.

And for some unknown reason, his new Master's grandmother, Charlotte
Maratier had taken a liking to him.

This had delighted Ben and he cunningly insinuated himself into her good
graces.  She'd quickly raised him to the position of acting steward in
place of the luckless Pollux, her grandson's choice and he'd used this as
an opportunity for further advancement. Sensing her bitter animosity
towards her former great nephew, Lucien Barrois, he never lost an
opportunity to humiliate or to punish the unhappy slave, Rafe. Cunningly,
he'd choose these moments of torment for the hapless new slave carefully;
always ensuring that his Mistress was on hand to witness them.

And it had paid off handsomely! Now a firm favourite with his Mistress, Ben
is her closest confidante and reigns supreme over her household.

Charlotte, now restored to her birth right, is at the zenith of her power
and eagerly looks forward to her triumphant return to La Foret.

But unhappily for Charlotte, Fate intervened. Capriciously, a lot of what
had been given to her was snatched away in the blink of an eye.

On the eve of her departure for La Foret, Charlotte Maratier suffered a
stroke that left her paralysed down one side and unable to walk. More
devastatingly, she lost the power of speech and her venomous tongue was
stilled!

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

I first overheard of Charlotte's fate as it was discussed among our
overseers. Naturally, it was of some interest to them but less so to my
fellow slaves. The slaves didn't know their Mistress and had no experience
of her mercurial temperament. On the other hand, I had and I rejoiced at
her misfortune.

I'd suffered much at her hands; she was the instrument of my downfall and I
can't say that I had one iota of sympathy for her. This is out of character
for me; normally I wish no harm on any person but to hear that she no
longer enjoys the 'spoils' of her victory over me made me smile and
lightened the yoke on my back.

To hear that she was now an invalid was reward enough but to learn that
she'd been rendered speechless was an added bonus.

I exulted that the venomous tongue could no longer form the bitter words
which were so much a part of her character. I rejoiced that her spiteful
thoughts could no longer express themselves in vitriolic words and they
must now dwell within the perpetual silence of her mind. Now, she has no
voice to express her hatred of me and I hoped the corrosiveness of her
nature would slowly eat away at her soul for the remainder of her days. Her
acid words were forever silenced and I saw this as poetic justice!

Later, I was to learn from Norge that Charlotte's 'changed circumstances'
also had unfortunate consequences for the conniving slave Ben.

Guy Maratier was devastated by his grandmother's illness and spared no
expense in seeking a medical cure. His efforts proved fruitless; Guy was to
discover that even unlimited wealth can prove useless in the face of such
adversity.

Inevitably, he had to accept the final verdict of all the specialists who
he'd consulted. Charlotte was to live out her days either bedridden or in a
wheelchair. Denied the use of her hands she would be totally dependent on
others for the remainder of her days. She would need constant, around the
clock, supervision and attention.

The specialists suggested that Guy employ the services of a live-in, fully
trained nursing companion for his grandmother. Briefly, Guy considered this
but decided he couldn't entrust the care of his beloved grandmother to that
of a stranger. Better that she be served by one she knew, she liked and
trusted. This could go some way to making her difficult life easier.

And there was no one she liked more than her house steward, Ben who fitted
these criteria perfectly.

Guy decided that Ben would become Charlotte's constant body slave; always
there to feed her and afterwards to wipe her mouth and chin; he would be on
hand to bathe and dress her of a morning, to tend to her bodily comforts
during the day and to undress her ready for bed of a night time.  Each
night, Ben would sleep on the floor alongside his Mistress's bed and remain
ever alert for her call.

Guy acted quickly! He visited Lionel Schuster's slave-market and at great
expense purchased an older, more experienced slave to take charge of
Charlotte's household thus relieving Ben for his new role as body slave to
his Mistress. Now freed from the onerous duties of house steward, Ben could
give his undivided attention to Charlotte's comfort and wellbeing.

I can only imagine at Ben's re-action to this. And as with Charlotte, I
felt no sympathy for my former body slave. Through his devious
machinations, he'd briefly enjoyed his time as Charlotte's chief
steward. Now, he has been reduced once more to the level of a body slave
and he is to share in his Mistress's handicap as her personal care-giver.

I decide there is justice in the world after all. Charlotte Maratier and
Ben deserve each other.

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

The remainder of my six weeks working as a draft slave were marked by long
hours, unremittingly hard labour and the verbal and physical abuse of my
handler, Sir Conn.

I emerged from those six weeks stronger in both mind and body. My physique
was at the peak of its condition. I felt good and despite my dishevelled
appearance and grime encrusted body, I knew that I looked good. My labours
had honed my body to rock solid hardness and conditioned my mind into an
acceptance of myself as a slave.

To be truthful, it was hard to see myself as anything other than a slave as
I toiled naked under the whips of the overseers.

My first days at La Foret had been difficult. When I'd arrived at the
plantation, I'd been a slave for so little time that I was still in a state
of shock at the reversal of my fortunes. My previous life had been brutally
torn from me and my new one loomed frighteningly before me. Despite what I
knew and understood about slavery, I was totally unprepared for its
actuality.

At the end of those six weeks - and remember they'd been preceded by six
weeks on the water- wheel - there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I
was now a slave for life. I accepted that without question. Guy Maratier
owned me. He was my Master and I was his slave.

This was an epiphany for me; this rebirth of myself as a slave. The former
Lucien Barrois was dead with his body ignominiously buried under the weight
of his shameful birth and his memory sullied by public approbation. No
headstone marked his passing and except for the Maratier family, his
resurrection as the slave Rafe went largely unnoticed.

There is a saying that hope springs eternal and at first I had hoped for
some miracle to happen which would restore me to my old, familiar
life. Those first days on the water-wheel had been filled with thoughts of
what was happening to me is all a dreadful mistake and soon someone will
come to release me from my chains and grant me my liberty. But this didn't
happen!

And with the passing of each day, my hope faded just a little more. There
was to be no freedom for me. My nakedness, my brands and the collar around
my neck were constant reminders to me what I'd become, what I am and what I
will remain to the end of my life. I am a slave!

And so, when the day came for me to be removed from the draft team and
taken to the stables to begin my pony training, I was resigned to the
inevitability of my fate. I went quietly to the stables and stood docilely
as the grooms set to work to prepare me for my new role. In truth, I
enjoyed the attention they lavished on me as I was made smooth. I knelt as
my tangled hair was pony cropped, and my face shaved smooth. I stood
placidly as they stripped the hair from my chest, belly and limbs.

Nervously, I watched as their razors shaved my cock and balls and scraped
the stray hairs from my ass crack. I luxuriated as they scrubbed me clean
with perfumed soap that took away my slave stink.  Unselfconsciously, I
began to show my excitement as they massaged me with scented body oil to
better highlight my newly acquired musculature. And my arousal was complete
when I was fitted with my new genital cinch designed to help me show
'proud' as I trained.

Now cleaned, groomed and ready to begin work as a pony, I was taken to
Claymore Jackson for his inspection and approval. I took pride in my new
appearance and I stood proudly as Claymore's hands roamed over my torso
gauging my fitness and readiness. I lost count of how many times he ordered
me to inhale and to hold my breath before exhaling as a test of my lung
capacity. He examined my corded thighs and the soles of my feet - now
hardened and calloused and made suitable for running barefoot. He hefted my
balls and stroked my cock to iron-bar rigidity and then told me.

"Rafe, you show proud as a good pony should. Keep it up and your Master
will be pleased with you."

He ordered me to "turn, bend and spread" so that he could test whether my
virginity was still intact.  The answer was too obvious as I'd spent all my
nights locked away in a security cage to spare me the forbidden attention
of my fellow slaves.

Finally, he examined the health of my mouth and the soundness of my teeth
and declared me ready to start the final part of my training.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and touched the side of my face and
spoke softly just to me.

"You have done well, Rafe! I'm pleased with you, boy!"

There was gentleness to his touch and kindness in his words. I wondered why
this was so?  But I also found encouragement in them. In his own gruff
manner, Claymore was telling me that I'd successfully made the transition
from the once proud, aristocratic Lucien Barrois to the accepting and now
obedient slave, Rafe.

This was unexpected and I wondered if Claymore recalled the small boy, who
many years ago, eagerly sought out his company and trustingly placed his
small hand in his large one? Perhaps he still has memories of those faraway
days. I still do!

Then abruptly turning from me he told the grooms that because the hour is
late, I am to begin my training in earnest the next morning. But for the
present, He instructed them to take me to the stables and place me in the
stall next to the one occupied by his pony, Jake and leave me to rest.

Peripherally, I had been aware of Jake standing to one side watching as
Claymore examined me. And seeing him reminded me of his friendship with
Norge. But then, Norge is never out of my thoughts.

I was delighted with the stall that was to be my home for the duration of
my training. It was clean and airy and had been covered with freshly strewn
straw in readiness for me. It was large enough for me to stretch out full
length to sleep and after the close confines of the security cage this was
luxury indeed.

It was true that whenever I was locked in my stall a strong chain, anchored
into the floor, was shackled around one ankle; but it was long enough to
allow me some freedom of movement. I could pace around my stall to ease my
cramped leg muscles and I had room to exercise and flex.

A trough, filled with fresh, clean water stood in one corner and a drain
which served as a receptacle for my bodily fluids and wastes ran along the
rear of the stall. Here I was able to squat, straddle- legged, to urinate
and defecate with some degree of privacy and after the humiliation of
publicly pissing and shitting like an animal on the water-wheel and in the
draft team this was most welcome.  The drain was flushed out several times
a day which removed my ordure and kept any unpleasant smells to a minimum.

Later, I will discover there are wooden nameplates attached to each stall
which bear the occupants' names. Above mine is a newly painted sign with
the name "RAFE" written in large black letters. This marked the stall as
mine and over the next three months I came to see it as my home

Suddenly my lot had improved and for the better.

But the greatest pleasure was the companionship I shared with Jake. Our
stalls were separated by a solid timber wall approximately four feet in
height which was topped by an open mesh metal grill that allowed us to see
one another and to speak. And I was to discover there were no restrictions
on us talking freely with one another.

That evening, as the other ponies were lead in by their grooms and placed
in their night-stalls, I watched as Sir Regis's pony, Honky entered the
other stall adjoining mine. This meant that I had Jake on my right and
Honky on my left.

At first, I was shy and unsure of the welcome I would receive from new
stable mates and so I remained silent. But both Jake and Honky warmly
welcomed me and the other ponies, taking their cues from them, shouted out
their own greetings to me from their stalls. It appeared that I had been
accepted into their company. They soon had me at my ease and included me in
their camaraderie.

After we'd eaten our evening meal, we talked until tiredness overtook us
and we fell into a deep slumber. I slept soundly through the night until we
were woken in the predawn gloom, given our morning ration of food and taken
out by our grooms and made ready for our day's labours.

I watched as Jake and Honky were harnessed to their carts and then tethered
to a hitching rail to wait for the arrival of their drivers, Claymore
Jackson and Sir Regis. While they waited, the overseer entrusted by
Claymore Jackson with the task of "breaking" me, attached a leather lead to
my collar and led me away to begin my training.

My training to become a pony involved several stages and I supposed it
mirrored that of Norge's training of last year. Before I was actually
placed in harness I had to undergo a strict programme of exercises to
maintain my cardio-vascular fitness and to strengthen my legs. Only when my
trainer was completely satisfied - and he didn't spare his whip to achieve
this satisfaction - did he allow me to move on to the next step of my
training.

The next part of my training was the worst. It was slow, tedious,
repetitious and soul-destroying. I was made to move in a wide circle around
a central post to which I was attached by a long, training lead. On the end
of this lead, which was fastened to my collar, I was made to walk, trot,
canter and run in a never-ending succession of circles encouraged by my
trainer's whip.  Once I had mastered those parts of my training, I was
introduced to the more fanciful steps that a driver demands from his pony;
I was taught the high-step and the prance. These proved to be the most
difficult for me; I was slow to learn them and only did so after many
painful encounters with the training whip.

My nights were better. These were spent in conversation with Jake, Honky
and the other ponies.  This freedom to converse was most welcome after the
loneliness of my first three months, and I entered wholeheartedly into
their friendly banter.

Because of their close proximity, most of my conversations were with Jake
and Honky. They had a genuine interest in my progress and both encouraged
me with their suggestions as to how I could make things easier for
myself. I appreciated their concerns and listened carefully to all they
told me.  In a sense they gave me the support that I missed getting from
Norge.

Norge was never far from my thoughts and inevitably - given that Jake also
shared my affection for him - our conversations would turn to Norge. Jake
told me of Norge's oft-spoken concerns for me and my wellbeing. Jake told
me that whenever our Master visited La Forõ€•˜ and he and Norge
were stabled together, Norge's first questions were about me. Always, he'd
ask if Jake had seen me, how I was coping and how I looked. I was touched
by this and when one night, Jake told me that Norge frequently spoke of his
love for me, I was reduced to tears. I missed Norge so much.

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
masculine smell; I ached for the tight embrace of his arms wrapped around
me and the feel of his strong, muscular body pressing close against mine. I
missed the iron-rod rigidity and heat of his cock crossing swords with my
own cock and the pleasurable sensation of it nestling comfortably within my
ass-crack. But most of all, I wanted to feel it buried deep within me.

My days were hard but my nights made it all bearable through my newfound
friendships with my fellow ponies. In a way, I think I was happier than I
had ever been. These slaves, who Lucien had exploited for his own selfish
interests, possessed nothing other than their generosity of spirit. This
they gave freely to me by forgiving me the wrongs committed against them
and in the warmth of the friendship they extended towards me. I considered
myself fortunate to belong to their number.

Inevitably, my Master visited La Forõ€•˜ and my happiness at
seeing Norge after so long a separation was boundless. As was customary,
Claymore gave permission for Norge to be stabled with Jake. I was overjoyed
that not only could I see Norge and to speak to him but I could actually
reach through the grill that separated us and touch his body.

And it was obvious that Norge was overjoyed to see me too. His cock - like
mine - swelled with his happiness.

Jake, Norge and I talked for hours. I had so much to tell him.

I told Norge how much, I'd missed him and he plied me with a torrent of
questions which conveyed his concern for my wellbeing. I hastened to tell
Norge that all was well with me.

Proudly I told Norge, I now accepted the inevitability of my changed
circumstances and I wanted nothing more than to serve alongside of him. And
I told him that I am justifiably proud of my progress and that I have come
a long way since my enslavement. I have moved from the bitter despair of
those early days into the final acceptance of my new station in life.  I
now accepted that, like him, I am a slave. And in that acceptance, I had
found a new peace of mind and a degree of contentment.

That first night, my excitement at seeing Norge prevented me from
sleeping. The thought of him lying on the other side of the thin wall that
separated my stall from Jake's was frustrating but his proximity was some
compensation. I listened as he and Jake made love. Was I jealous? Not at
all!  Envious perhaps but I wasn't jealous.

I understood all that Norge and Jake meant to one another and how could I
be jealous of their mutual affection. Besides, I had grown to appreciate
all that Jake had unselfishly given to Norge during his days at La Foret.
He'd made Norge's stay bearable and I was deeply indebted to him for that.
And during our nightly talks, I had recognised the nobility of Jake's
character. It was true to say that I now shared Norge's deep affection for
Jake. And I knew, when I eventually returned to the city, I would miss his
friendship.

Several times during my training, Guy Maratier visited to check on my
progress. These visits soon took on a familiar pattern.  First he would
inspect me by running his hands over my upper body while discussing my
level of fitness and muscle definition with my trainer and Claymore
Jackson. I had learned to remain silent and to stand passively as he
tweaked my nipples and toyed with my genitals. He had a genuine interest in
my cock and he would spend several minutes sliding his fist up and down its
shaft .This action never failed to bring me to full arousal and he always
watched as my burgeoning erection sprang to life. This seemed to please him
no end. Then as the final part of his inspection, he would gauge the
strength of my legs and my ass before examining my teeth.

Before my Master left, my trainer always gave him a practical demonstration
of my progress to date; he would put me through my paces by running me in a
circle to demonstrate my speed and current ability. As I ran, they would
talk and I supposed Master would be expressing his satisfaction - or
dissatisfaction - with some aspect of my training and making suggestions as
to how things could be improved.

Eventually my training finished and I was placed in harness for the first
time. I was now a fully- fledged pony slave almost ready for my Master's
use. But before I was handed over to him I had to temporarily serve time as
Claymore Jackson's pony pulling him on his daily round of inspections of
the vast estate.

Early each morning, I was harnessed to the Claymore's cart and tethered at
the front steps of his residence. After he'd eaten breakfast, he would
drive me on his daily tours of inspection along the tree-shaded network of
roads traversing La Foret's patchwork of fields. Some days I would catch a
glimpse of Pollux working in the distance; bent double as he worked - and
fearful of the whip - I doubt that he ever saw me working as a pony.

The two weeks I served as the Claymore's pony put the finishing touches to
my training; under his tutelage, I learned to respond to the driver's
whip. Ponies are expected to give of their best in the service of their
Masters but even the best-intentioned pony will flag at times. Inevitably,
his legs will tire and it is then that the whip is brought into play. And
so it was with me on my first day in harness.

I'd been in harness for several hours and made to run from one spot to
another with the occasional stop as the Claymore talked with his
overseers. I quickly learned to value these all-too-brief pauses; they gave
my bursting lungs a chance to replenish and for my aching legs to cease
their jelly-like quivering.

After one such stop, I thought I was running at the required speed and I
was therefore surprised at Claymore's impatient instruction to me to.

"Come on! Come on! Pick it up!"

I yelped as his whip cut across my ass and acting on reflex I threw myself
forward into my harness.

"PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP!"

As he continued to shout at me and to apply his whip to my shoulders, back
and buttocks, I tried, with animal like panic, to outrun the cruel sting of
his lash. I suspect some type of survival instinct took control of my mind
- one that sought to remove my body from the source of its pain. In a vain
effort to outrun the whip, I found myself running ever faster and drawing
on hidden reserves of strength and endurance.

But for a pony in harness, there is no escaping the whip. In my futile
effort to escape the whip's fury, I was indeed running faster which is what
my driver was demanding of me. He was victorious; I had responded as a pony
inevitably must. His will had prevailed over any imagined inability on my
part to give more of myself to the task required of me. He'd demanded more
of me and I had given it.

I became a true pony that day and was ready to serve my Master.

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

Now six months after I first came to La Foret as the frightened new slave,
Rafe, I stand motionless as my Master examines me.  He is watched by
Claymore Jackson and the young overseer, Conn, the two men most responsible
for my training.

My Master takes my cock in one hand and my balls in his other. He gently
squeezes my balls as he strokes my eager cock into even greater
hardness. He is gratified with my response and tells me that I am putting
on a great show and he is proud of me.  Then turning to Claymore and Sir
Conn he comments.

"Rafe presents well doesn't he? His cock is at least the equal of Norge's
and the two of them running side by side should show well.... as you have
noted, Claymore."

"Indeed he does, Guy! And the amazing thing is the stamina and endurance of
his prick. He's able to keep it up for inordinately long periods. He has
that in common with your other pony, Norge. I remember, when I drove Norge
during his initial training, I was impressed with his ability to show
well. Rafe is at least his equal and I think both ponies will do you proud
and warrant many an admiring glance."

"So tell me Claymore, do you consider Rafe is ready for harness
work. Should I be looking to take him back to the city with me?"

"Guy, the slave is more than ready. One has only to look at his body to see
that. Look at the steady rise and fall of the chest. That speaks of his
great lung capacity which adds to his ability to sustain long distance
running. I always said that the slave's physiology makes him ideal for pony
work".

"I don't quite follow, Claymore. What do you mean about his physiology?"

"Well Guy, I believe a slave's human physiology makes for the perfect
pony. Put simply, slaves were designed for running. Think about it for a
moment. The slave is designed to walk or run in an upright position and his
eyes are focused to enable him to do this. And his cardio-vascular system
and his long legs are designed to carry him over great distances. His legs
and feet have a unique system of flexible springs that generate and store a
lot of energy and his lungs supply oxygen to fuel that energy. He has an
inbuilt cooling system in that he sweats profusely and this stops him from
overheating.  And even his ass has a role to play; the gluteus muscles keep
him in balance as he runs.  Rafe has all these attributes and he'll make a
great pony to team with Norge."

"I'd never thought of it in those terms, Claymore. But it does make sense."

"Guy, it makes perfect sense. Next time you drive your pony at full gallop,
don't just admire his ass.  Take time to study it and see how it all
works. Look at the play of muscles in his back and note the working of his
legs as he strides out and see how both ass cheeks keep it all in
balance. Do that and you'll see a pony's true beauty? There is no more
pleasing sight than to sit behind a pony and watch his body in action."

My Master continues to excite me and he is amused by my trembling response
to his stimulation.

He strokes my cock with one hand and reaching behind me he uses a finger of
the other hand to test my virginity

"Steady on there, Rafe! You're becoming a bit too frisky for your own
good."

I hear Claymore and Sir Conn laughing in the background.

"From the feel of him, the slave is very tight. Obviously, my orders were
followed? He has never been fucked?"

"Guy, Rafe has never been violated. Your orders were followed to the letter
of the law. He's as chaste as the driven snow. Isn't that right, Conn?"

"That's right, Sir!

Sir Conn's answer is concise and leaves much unsaid. My mind returns to our
early mornings trysts in the shrubbery bordering the homestead's
gardens. But always, the young overseer had respected his employer's
instructions and my ass had remained out-of bounds to him.

Master leans closer to me and suggestively whispers in my ear.

"Well boy! That's a situation we'll have to correct, isn't it?  I'll attend
to that just as soon as I get you back to the city."

In saying this, he demonstrates his mastery over me.

Then turning to Claymore he tells the overseer.

"Rafe will return to the city with me tomorrow. Please have him ready and
shackled to Norge for an early morning departure."

"Guy, I'll do better than that. Why not take one of the double pony carts
from here and have him run it tandem with Norge. You can put him through
his paces on the straight stretches of the road and test his pulling power
on the hills. It will be a good work-out for him and an opportunity for you
to get a feel for your new pony."

"What an excellent suggestion, Claymore. Thank you!"

For my part I am overjoyed!  Tomorrow I am to return to the city and begin
my new life as my Master's pony. In doing that, I am fulfilling my destiny
and I have trained six months for this day's arrival. I am impatient to
begin but even more impatient to tell Norge that I will be returning with
him to the city.

I doubt I will sleep much tonight. My excitement will be too great.

To be continued.....