Date: Fri, 2 Nov 2012 21:54:33 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances"  Chapter 54

Changed Circumstances
Chapter 54
"Schooldays Re-visited"

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): October, 2012
Read my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The characters and ideas in this story are purely fictitious and belong to
the writer. They shouldn't be used without his permission. Please respect
the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or
add pictures"

Chapter 54: "Schooldays Re-visited"

For a slave time moves with inexorable slowness. Each day passes exactly as
the one preceding it and today sets the pattern for tomorrow. At least
that's how it seems to me and once, when I'd mentioned this to Norge, he
gave that exasperated sigh he always reserves for me when I try his
patience. He told me that this is a slave's lot and thinking about it won't
make the time go any faster.  In fact, he told me bluntly.

"Rafe, get used to it! I had to and now you must too."

In my own defence, I have to say that the sameness of my life as a slave
palls on me. But I suppose this is the same for any free man who
unexpectedly finds himself a slave. The loss of freedom is shattering and
soul-destroying and there are huge emotional hurdles that the new slave
must also overcome. During the first six months of my slavery, these seemed
insurmountable as I struggled with my new life. At first, I felt I'd not
survive - indeed, in those early days, I saw death as a blessed release
from my new "hell on earth".

The loss of my freedom, of all my worldly possessions and even my name were
issues I found I couldn't handle. And added to these were the rejection by
my closest friends and business acquaintances and the almost universal
revulsion of the wider community who now despised me.  These were major
issues for me to deal with and they were just too weighty for my shoulders
to bear alone.  Perhaps this was a reflection of my youth and immaturity -
I don't know.

Every day, the courts are sentencing more and more unfortunates to lifelong
enslavement for the most trivial of offences. The recently re-elected
Governor- encouraged by the public response to his draconian "Barrois
Amendments" to the Slave Act - put before the Legislature a whole draft of
new offences many of which are simple misdemeanours rather than serious
crimes. And it has to be said the politicians, with an eye to their
re-election prospects, willingly acquiesced to his strident demands.

The public's demand for slaves is insatiable and grows unabated by the
day. The demand for new slaves means that there are now many more
"candidates for enslavement" appearing before the courts and this has given
rise to a new entrepreneurial class of slave-traders. Mostly, these are
inexperienced people motivated by the "quick buck" syndrome and with little
or no interest in the human flesh they peddle. One can find these small,
shonky slave-dealers on small, suburban, corner allotments or in shopfront
businesses in the shopping malls.

Perhaps it's the more respectable, well- established slave traders who have
benefited the most from this growing demand for more slaves. Just recently,
I overheard Master talking about the odious dealer, Lionel Schuster and the
fact that he has expanded and modernized his establishment to meet this
growing market.

What I do know is that in my self-absorption, I handled my enslavement
badly! My experiences aren't unique to me and are repeated with sickening
regularity every day of the week. However, unlike most other new slaves I
was fortunate. In the moments of my darkest despair, Norge stepped forward
to help me.

For that I am eternally grateful to Norge and now count myself fortunate to
have him as a brother slave, a stable-mate and a true friend. But most of
all we are lovers.

It is now almost six months since I returned from La Foret and our days are
boring in the extreme because they never vary. Early each morning, we are
harnessed to Master's cart and tethered to a hitching-rail in the courtyard
ready for when he needs to drive us. This routine never changes.

Initially, our first trip of the day was to take our young Master Etienne
on the short trip to his school.  Master Etienne had been trained to drive
us and he did so with enthusiasm and dash. Over time his control of us
showed his growing confidence at driving a "pair in hand" and he had
perfected his use of the driver's whip which he used on us with great skill
and finesse.

The driver's whip is an essential part of any pony's day. It is the
driver's tongue - the silent means of communication between him and his
pony - and with it he speaks to the pony and tells him of his wishes.

Master uses his whip on us but does so with restraint. Often it is just a
quick flick to our shoulders or our asses to refocus our attention when our
minds wander; something that happens a lot. The sheer monotony of running
before a cart denies a pony any mental stimulation. All his attention is
focused on pulling the cart behind him and the pounding of his feet and the
scrunching of the cart's wheels on the road's surface have a hypnotic
effect that lulls him into a trance-like stupor.

A pony - as with all slaves - is forbidden to read and so there is no
mental stimulation for him in contemplating the news of the day or the
affairs of the world. The only thoughts that a pony has are those concerned
with his well -being; thinking ahead to his next meal to relieve his hunger
pangs, or his next water intake or when he'll be allowed to attend to the
calls of nature.

From a personal perspective, I no longer dwell on my past life although at
first, I suppose many ponies do think of their previous lives. For me to do
so, would only awaken painful memories which would add to my distress and
serve no useful purpose.

So, as I run alongside of Norge, my mind is essentially blank and any
thoughts I do have are centred on him and our nocturnal love-making. These
fill my days with appreciative memories of the previous night and eager
anticipation of the one ahead of us.

As I said Master does use his whip with restraint - although he can subject
us to firmer discipline if he thinks we aren't fully applying ourselves to
our task. But Norge and I seldom disappoint our Master in the performance
of our duties and he occasionally rewards us with little titbits like a
lump of sugar or a small portion of apple in appreciation of our efforts.

However, Master Etienne's attitude to us is very different to his father's.
In recent times he has grown in both confidence and arrogance.  After years
of poverty, sudden unlimited wealth is spoiling Etienne and this is
reflected in his attitude to his father's slaves.

I know from whispered talk among the stable-slaves that the fearful
house-slaves live in dread of upsetting their young Master. The caning
table, once stored in the stables and only taken out into the courtyard
when required, has found a permanent position at the centre of the yard
where it serves as a constant reminder to the slaves not to displease
Master Etienne.  Summary punishments have now become "de rigueur" and a
wretched slave can find himself strapped to the bench with his ass
positioned for the cane at the slightest provocation. Indeed, Norge and I
have been witnesses to these on many occasions as we stood tethered waiting
for our Master.

At first, these canings consisted of only five or six strokes and they were
administered by a stable slave. More recently, Master Etienne has taken to
personally administering these canings and they have grown in frequency
while, at the same time, the number and severity of the strokes has
increased.

Master Etienne, despite his youth, is now a young Master to be truly
feared!

Initially, the first chore of our day was to take Master Etienne to
school. He was always accompanied by a groom from the stables whose task it
was to drive us but, from the outset, Master Etienne took hold of the reins
with the groom sitting in the passenger's seat.  Always, after delivering
Master Etienne to school, the slave drove Norge and I back home and left us
tethered and ready for Master's use.

Norge and I came to dread being driven by Master Etienne. Right from the
outset, he applied the whip to us and drove us at sweat-inducing, almost
neck-break speed.  Quite obviously, he wanted to impress his school friends
and we provided him with the means to do so.

Norge and I have gained an enviable reputation as a "noble pair" of ponies
and we draw admiring glances and high praise from all quarters. Wherever,
Master drives us, inevitably we are surrounded by a group of admirers
complimenting him on his ownership of us and, with his approval; we are
subjected to intimate, hands-on inspections.

Once I would have resented these inspections as I thought back to the very
first day of my slavery when Norge and I had been publicly humiliated by
Major Swanston in front of my former neighbours.  But my time spent at La
Forˆt had inured me to my nakedness and I now passively submit to any
examinations that Master permits.

Because I own nothing - even my body is my Master's - the only source of
personal pride open to me is in my appearance. And I am very aware that I
have an imposing physique, handsome features and I have heard it said that
I "present well".  It is also said by some that I have a noble bearing
which they attribute to my Barrois sire.

If I'm honest, I have to admit to a sense of pride and satisfaction as
admiring hands glide over my nude body gauging the density and strength of
my muscles and the soundness and health of my heart and lungs.  Like Norge,
I stand docilely as my legs are lifted and the soles of my feet inspected.
Nor do I pull back as my balls are hefted and weighed in an eager, cupped
hand or as my cock is stroked to rampant erection.

But there are some aspects of these inspections that I have never really
adjusted to. I resent having my ass cheeks spread wide to expose my anus to
the public scrutiny of my admirer. And I hate the insertion of a finger
into my rectum as a test of my "tightness".  But the thing I dislike the
most is the inevitable, final part of all these inspections - a close
inspection of my head. I really hate it as my head to tilted from side to
side while my ears are peered into or as my head is pushed back for a nasal
inspection.  And I truly hate that imperious tap to the side of my jaw and
the demeaning order to "open wide" as the health of my tongue and the
soundness of my teeth are checked.

A few times my resentment has gotten the better of me and I have been known
to baulk at these final indignities. Always my intransigence has earned me
a slap to the face or the ass and the sharp rebuke from Master to.

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

Master Etienne has been enrolled in my old school. It is the most
prestigious, private school for boys in the city. Back in my school-days,
it was a bastion of privilege where only the sons of the aristocratic and
old money families could afford to attend. Its high attendance fees gave it
an air of "exclusiveness" that precluded the "riff-raff" from among its
enrolments.

However, in these recent, "more democratic" times, it has been opened up to
the sons of the ever expanding, noveau riche, entrepreneurial classes who
see an education here as an essential stepping-stone into high society. I
understand that by the sheer weight of their numbers, these newly rich
merchants have replaced the old system of stately school governors with a
new board of management made up of members from among their numbers who
prattle on incessantly about the need for "good business practices".

At the same time their aspiring wives noisily busy themselves with cocktail
parties, black tie dinners and other crass events that are completely out
of keeping with the school's fine old traditions which have stood the test
of time over the past century and a half.

And in many ways, my Master and his son, Etienne epitomise this new school
culture.  It's true that my distant cousin Guy possesses the blood of our
common de Barrois ancestor. But his grandmother's exclusion from the family
saw him grow up impoverished and largely uneducated.  And that continued
with his son. Obviously, it's too late for Guy to be educated but not for
his son, Etienne. Guy is determined that his son will have all the
advantages denied to him and he'll spare no expense in turning Etienne into
a young gentleman and suitable heir to the Maratier fortune.

And given their impoverished background, it will be interesting to see what
type of young man Etienne becomes eventually. Perhaps it is possible to
make a silk purse from a sow's ears.

On that first morning when Etienne drove us to school, I had very mixed
feelings as Norge and I trotted up the long, gravelled driveway leading to
the ivy-clad, cloistered buildings of my old school.  I recalled the many
happy occasions I shared there with my former friends, Miles, Jack and
Daniel and tears misted my eyes at the sadness I felt. The loss of their
friendship still affected me. And I recalled my recent encounter with
Francois Fournier - another school friend - in his quarries.

I remembered the shame I'd felt as Francois talked to my overseer about
me. That morning, standing as a naked, yoked slave in front of my former
friend, had inwardly distressed me deeply. I was very self-conscious of my
nakedness and yet it wasn't the first time he'd seen me in the nude. In
fact, we'd often resorted to naked wrestling in the showers after a rowing
session at school. Then, our nakedness had been on equal terms. That day,
in the quarry, it had been anything but equal. My enforced nakedness showed
my slave status and shamed me in front of one who'd once been my boyhood
friend.

Returning to my school as a driven harness pony had much the same
effect. Master Etienne had driven us hard and whipped us unmercifully.  Our
sweat-soaked backs - from our shoulders to our asses - showed the red
stripes of the whip which he had enthusiastically applied to us.  And
Master Etienne had perfected the knack of flicking the tip of his whip
against our testicles to keep us moving.  Our cinched balls, tightly
bundled within our scrotums, were easy targets for Etienne's whip and he'd
not held back in its use on them. To say that Norge and I had "tender
balls" was an understatement of the fact.

As Master Etienne guided us through the imposing gateway into the school
grounds, he'd slowed us down to a gentle trot. He'd not done this out of
consideration for us; rather he was obeying the signs at the entrance which
set the maximum speed for all vehicular traffic at eight kilometres per
hour.  We weren't the only ponies and trap being driven to school that
morning. It appeared that many other students also drove their families'
ponies to school.

This was a new phenomenon for me; back in my student days, such a practise
would never have been permitted by the school governors. They would have
seen the presence of so many naked, harness slaves as lowering the tone of
the school's illustrious and jealously guarded image.

But now in the interests of modern business practices, the students are
allowed to drive their ponies to school. The new management committee has
set aside a stable where, for a fee, the ponies are held in shackles during
school hours while their young Masters attend their classes.

In the past, the school had been discreet in its use of slaves and their
numbers were kept to the absolute minimum required to maintain the school's
buildings and sporting ovals. Those verdant green, playing fields,
immaculately kept by the grounds slaves, stood on the banks of a broad
river which shimmered silver and gold in the early morning sunlight.  I'd
rowed on this river with Francois and built on its banks were the rowing
sheds and the dressing rooms where we'd wrestled so boisterously after our
rowing sessions. The thought of those boyish hijinks brought a lump to my
throat.

As we paused in front of the school's main entrance, memories came flooding
back of my own carefree schooldays. The uniform worn by today's pupils is
the same as the one I'd once worn. The tailored grey slacks, the pale
dove-grey shirt and striped tie, the colourful maroon blazer with the gold
trim and the straw boater hat - universally disliked in my day as
old-fashioned - were identical to those I'd worn all those years ago.

We stood as Master Etienne waited for the slave who'd accompanied him to
retrieve his satchel and books from the luggage compartment of the trap and
to take them to him. Unfortunately, the clumsy slave dropped a book and was
loudly berated by his young Master.  Flustered, the slave bent to pick up
the book and as he did so Master Etienne slapped his ass and told the slave
he's just earned himself ten strokes of the cane. Etienne continued to
berate the slave - much to the amusement of his loudly cheering, fellow
students - and told the slave he was to remind him of his punishment later
that afternoon.

As Norge and I looked on, I saw again the helpless plight of the enslaved.
We truly are at the mercy of our Masters and our lives are full of pitfalls
which can see us punished at a mere whim. How demeaning it was to watch an
adult slave being humiliatingly berated by his school-aged Master before
his classmates.

Nostalgically, I watched as Master Etienne joined with some other boys and
climbed the steps leading to the imposing front entrance to the
school. Above the door was the school's coat-of-arms and Latin motto which
is replicated on the top pocket of the students' blazers.

I knew the routine well; for I had once been so much a part of it. The
students would stow their books in their desks and move quickly to gather
in the Great Hall for morning assembly. Here they would be lead in Morning
Prayer by the school's chaplain and sing hymns of thanksgiving for all the
good things in their lives.

I wondered how many of the young Masters included their slaves in their
prayers or songs of thanksgiving. Yet, I already knew the answer - none! In
my times at morning assembly, I'd never once given any thought to a slave.
Why then would today's students be any different to me.

All that was familiar came flooding back to me. I watched as teachers,
dressed in their flapping, black gowns, hurried up the steps and into the
building. I didn't recognise them from my student days. But it was some
years since I'd graduated and no doubt the teachers who'd taught me had all
moved on.

But there was one exception. Lagging behind was a stooped, grey haired
teacher from my school- days. As he slowly walked past, heavily laden down
with his books, I remembered him well. He was my old language teacher and
I'd once been a favourite pupil of his. From him I'd learned my English
expression, the intricacies of Latin and Classical Greek and the nuances of
my favourite French.

How thankful I was that he didn't recognise me - indeed he walked past
without a sideways glance in my direction. But why would he look at me. I
was a naked slave harnessed with another slave to a cart and we as such we
didn't rate a second glance.

And even if he did look at me would he have recognised in the naked slave a
favourite pupil from so long ago. I doubt it very much. And for that I was
very grateful.

As the slave drove Norge and me away from Master Etienne's school, he did
so at a leisurely pace.  Perhaps mindful of his imminent caning at
Etienne's hands, he withheld the whip and gave us verbal instructions to
keep us moving.

Each morning, I returned to my old school and fortuitously, I was never
recognised. I lived in dread of a member of staff or a visiting "old boy"
doing so. How I would have handled that emotionally is open to
conjecture. Of course, had that happened, I would have just stood passively
and mute and suffered the comments or any insults directed at me. I had no
other recourse but to suffer in silence.  Yet, I knew my inner turmoil
would be intolerable.

Always as I was driven to my old school, I felt the wretchedness of my
situation. Previously, I'd entered into the school grounds as a pampered,
spoiled student with the world at my feet. Now I entered it as a naked
harness-slave. The irony of my situation wasn't lost on me. How many other
slaves can say they graduated with "cum laude" from these hallowed halls of
learning? I would venture to say I am the only one. Undoubtedly, education
made me over-qualified for my role as a slave. My past learning has no part
to play in my present life. Indeed, I am forbidden any intellectual
stimulation as all reading is now forbidden to me.

My memories of my schooldays are bittersweet ones made even more so by my
reminiscences of happier days spent with my close friends, Miles, Jack and
Daniel and my rowing partner, Francois. At first, the loss of those
friendships cut deep into my soul but my burgeoning love of Norge has more
than compensated for those losses.

But I still grieve for the lost friendships of my youth and occasionally,
just occasionally, I wonder about my four, former friends. And I wonder if
they ever give any thought to me?

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

Eventually, Master Etienne matured to a level where his father considered
him ready for his own pony and trap. Buying a suitable trap was easy;
finding the right pony to pull it proved slightly more difficult. Master
consulted with Claymore Jackson on the suitability of La Foret's
ponies. Many were tested and found wanting. Some were considered too strong
for a boy of Etienne's slight stature to control and others seen as too
flighty or high-spirited. Although, from my experience with Master
Etienne's holding of the reins, I believed he was very capable of handling
any pony.

Eventually a decision was made and Norge's friend, Jake became Master
Etienne's personal pony.  Jake was brought in from La Foret and now shares
the stables with Norge and me. Each morning, he is groomed with us and then
he is harnessed to Etienne's cart and tethered in the courtyard until his
young Master requires him.

Jake now leads a very different life to the one he lived at La Foret. For a
start, his duties are less onerous and his workload less demanding. Now,
all that is expected of Jake is that he delivers Master Etienne to school
each morning and returns home with him each afternoon. In between, Jake
spends the day shackled and secured in the school's stables with all the
other ponies belonging to the students.

Jake has more than once spoken of his boredom in spending his days locked
away in the school stables. He frets at the inactivity of being shackled
until he is reharnessed to Master Etienne's cart in the afternoon.  He
tells Norge and me how he envies us as our Master's drives us throughout
the day and how he wishes he could share in our physical activity as we run
side by side delivering our Master from destination to destination.


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

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