Date: Tue, 1 Oct 2013 02:07:10 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 57 (Gay Male / Authoritarian)

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
Chapter 57
"An Unhappy Event"

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

Written by Jean-Christophe: September, 2013
Read all my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

The characters and ideas contained in this story belong in the writer's
imagination and have no resemblance to any persons or events. Please
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Chapter 57

Guy:

My plans to secretly dispose of Rafe and Norge have come to nothing. It has
been some weeks since I'd conspired with Lionel Schuster to smuggle the two
slaves out of the country and to sell them abroad.

I am becoming frustrated by Lionel Schuster's apparent lack of action and,
increasingly, I worry about my future and that of my son, Etienne. As long
as Rafe remains visible to his old friends and their growing band of
supporters, he is a potential threat to my financial wellbeing.

And despite the fact I've already made several large cash payments to the
slave-dealer for "services rendered" nothing has happened as yet.

I haven't spoken to Miles Fortescue or Francois Fournier since our initial
meeting but I know their efforts to free Rafe continue unabated. I have
been kept informed of their activities by the lawyer, Simon Barrow who acts
as my eyes and ears on the ground.

While Simon is a fellow conspirator, I don't delude myself that he does
this out of any friendship for me. Certainly we work closely together - he
is after all my right hand man in the Maratier business empire - and his
services there are invaluable to me.

However, ours is a marriage of convenience. Simon Barrow is a member of a
minor but respectable family and because the establishment will never
accept me into their august ranks, despite my prodigious wealth, he acts as
my conduit into areas that are forever closed to me. The circumstances
surrounding my grandmother's "scandalous" marriage to a socially inferior
man have never been forgotten by the establishment and I pay the heavy
price of their ostracism for her ancient indiscretion.

Many of the city's leading citizens must do business with one or another of
the Maratier companies but they baulk at face to face meetings with
me. Consequently, all their business dealings are done through an
intermediary and Simon acts as my proxy. This, of course, gives him
considerable power within my enterprises and an enormous amount of prestige
within the business community.

No doubt, they see Simon as the de facto head of my companies and this is a
situation I am happy with as long as it produces the results I want. For my
part, I have no desire to move into the stultifying world of the old money
families; the few friends I do have are members of the entrepreneurial
class of the noveau riche who, like me, are despised and ostracized by the
stagnating, aristocratic clique.

I reward Simon handsomely and he now enjoys an enviable lifestyle which
includes a large city home, a moderately sized, rural holding and many
slaves. I do know he skims off small amounts of my profits into his own
pockets to finance this lavish lifestyle. But as long as he doesn't become
too greedy and the scope of his embezzlement remains moderate, I'll turn a
blind eye to his dishonesty. Why do I do this?

I suppose it's a small price to pay for his undoubted and valued services
to Maratier Enterprises and for his support of me in getting rid of Rafe.

I have managed to keep my plans for Rafe secret from my household slaves
and he suspects nothing. This is as I want it! It is better that Rafe
doesn't know of my plans for him and Norge until they are implemented and
it is too late for his supporters to act to free him.

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

Rafe:

The feeble light of the new dawn lifts the gloom of the stable as Norge
stirs out of his deep sleep. He stretches provocatively, turns onto his
side and facing me he takes my hand and places it on his early morning
tumescence. As always, he is iron rod hard and I feel the blood heat of his
rampant erection. His action is an unspoken instruction to me to lower my
head to his groin and to take his cock into the moist embrace of my
mouth. I do so willingly!

This is now our standard greeting of each new day. I use my mouth to
pleasure Norge and when he is ready, he'll place me either on my back or on
all fours and fuck me. I live for these moments. The fact that we'd fucked
last night before drifting off to sleep locked in the tight embrace of each
other's arms only whets my appetite for more.  I can never have enough of
Norge's magnificent cock and I willingly submit to his "mastery" over me.

It could be said that I have two masters. The more obvious one is Guy
Maratier who owns my body and the other, less obvious, is Norge who owns my
soul and rules over my emotions.

Silence reigns in the stillness of our stable stall and is broken only by
the soft slurping of my lips as they piston along the hard shaft of Norge's
erection. His responsive moans show his appreciation of my oral skills.

Norge lies prone on our straw bedding with his hands entwined behind his
head and he watches the bobbing of my head as my eager mouth works the
length of his cock. The manner of his lying displays his torso to
perfection. Each muscle is clearly delineated and every tendon is stretched
to the limit. With each bob of my head, my hair brushes the concave of his
belly as my eyes focus on the rapidly increasing rise and fall his powerful
chest. Both pectorals are hard slabs of muscle and each is crowned by a
rosy-red nipple of needle-point sharpness. I am besotted by his masculine
beauty and the sheer physicality of his nearness to me.  Intoxicated, I
breathe in the heady aroma of his masculinity; a potent potpourri of sweat,
male musk blending with the lingering scent of yesterday's body oil and
overlaid with the meadow-sweet smell of the fresh straw we lie upon. It is
a powerful aphrodisiac and it works its spell on me for I am rampantly
erect and dripping precum.

Our ardour rises until suddenly, Norge orders me to lie on my back and to
lift my legs over my shoulders so that my ass cheeks are spread wide for
him. I feel the stretch of my anus and I feel its impatient pulsing as it
winks an invitation to him to enter me.  It is an invitation that Norge
never refuses and this morning is no exception.

He positions himself at my ass and I feel the conical head of his penis
pressing against my anus with some urgency. I relax to give Norge easier
entry into the tight confines of my rectum and I wince as his prodigious
cock pushes past the constricting ring of my sphincter.

Slowly at first, Norge's penis glides in and out of my eager ass. He takes
hold of my upraised ankles and spreads them wide to use as supports against
the increasing tempo of his impatient thrusting. This also elevates my ass
and I now feel - and hear - the slapping of his heavy balls against my bare
buttocks.

As our passions intensify, I feel the wild throbbing of his cock and the
reciprocal response of my ass muscles gripping and massaging this most
welcome intruder. Despite the coolness of the early morning air both of us
are soon sweat lathered as we work hard towards our mounting climaxes. I
feel the first warning shots of his impending ejaculation and momentarily
Norge is still as his balls churn. He arches his body backwards and pushes
harder into me; it's as though he has to bury himself deeper within me so
that not one drop of his precious seed is wasted.

Then, I hear his solitary, triumphal grunt and I feel his body convulsed by
a great shudder as he climaxes. I am overwhelmed by my own pleasurable
enjoyment as his cock pulses with primal energy. Suddenly, my innards are
scorched by the hot semen of his fiery eruption causing me to ejaculate
simultaneously with Norge. My own semen discharges in a creamy- white arc
over my belly to land with a soft splat on my chest and face.

Finally, we are spent and Norge falls forward and lies on top of me as
erotically, our sweat- slicked bodies slither against each other. For now
our sexual needs have been met and we are happy in the knowledge that our
lovemaking will be repeated tonight. We wait for our cocks to soften until
his slips out of me with a soft plop. Contentedly, we lie cradled in each
other's arms. Norge falls silent and closes his eyes to snatch a few
minutes precious sleep before we begin our new work day. I on the other
hand am wide awake and lost in my solitary thoughts of Norge, of my great
love for him and my life as his fellow slave.

And neither of us is aware that today will prove a momentous one with the
most far- reaching consequences.

It must be said that life continues as normal for me. I have long
reconciled myself to my slavery and I no longer yearn to be free. After
all, what use is there in hoping for the impossible? My life changed
irrevocably the day I was enslaved and in the intervening period I have
adjusted my mindset to that of a slave.

Now, my life is centred on Norge and my great love for him. He is the
brightest star in the dark firmament of my life and without him at my side,
I could never have survived. In those early days, just after I became a
slave, it was his determination that saw me through the traumas of my
changed circumstances and it was his great strength that I drew on to
continue living.

My days are filled with Norge running at my side as we pull our Master's
cart behind us and my nights with him lying alongside me in our stable as
we make love. Norge's love dominates me and I happily surrender to him in
all things. There is no greater happiness for me than to have Norge enter
me and claim me as his own.

The tempo of our lives never changes; but I suppose that is true for all
slaves. Time belongs to our owners and not to us. Nor does the pattern of
our days vary. Each day is the same as the one before and tomorrow will be
the same as today. That is one of the immutable laws of slavery.

Each morning we are woken at first light by one of the groom slaves who
feeds and waters us before leading us to the latrines to relieve ourselves,
then we are hosed down, body shaved and scrubbed clean before our bodies
are oiled for the day. The body oil serves two purposes.

The first reason we are oiled is to protect us from the elements. The oil
acts as a screen against the sun's intensity and it also serves to
waterproof our hides against the rain. It has to be remembered that we are
required to pull our Master's cart naked no matter how inclement the
weather.

The second reason is to highlight our musculatures of which our Master is
inordinately proud. Many times he has basked in the praise of a passer-by
who has stopped to admire us. On those occasions, our Master shows his
appreciation by inviting the passer-by to inspect us. This is an invitation
that is seldom refused and Norge and I stand passively as strange hands
explore our naked bodies. Of course, such an inspection always involves the
hand manipulation of our cocks as a test for the strength of our erections,
the hefting of our balls to gauge their weight and potency and the parting
of our ass-cheeks as a prelude to the inspection of our anuses. And finally
there is the examination of our mouths to check the health of our gums and
the soundness of our teeth.

I have become immune to these indignities although it wasn't always so. At
first, I resented having my naked body inspected so intimately by a
stranger. On those occasions, as Norge stood passively still, I would
fidget and move about to show my unwillingness. But my truculence wasn't
tolerated and invariably I would feel the sting of Guy Maratier's whip on
my ass or shoulders together with his admonition to

"Rafe, stand still damn you!"

It only took one or two lashes to subdue me. Still, I seethed with hidden
anger and I wondered how Norge could stand passively still as he was
publicly humiliated. Then, guiltily, I remembered that I, as Lucien Barrois
and his former owner, had been the first to subject Norge to these
indignities. As his Master I'd taken pride in my ownership of him and his
feelings had never bothered me. After all he was just a slave. And so,
shamefully, I came to see the poetic justice of my present situation.

This morning, as these thoughts tumble through my head, I lay on my side
propped up by my elbow and gaze upon the sleeping form of my lover. I smile
at the occasional fluttering of his long, golden eyelashes and reaching out
I place my hand on the warm hardness of his mighty chest. There, I feel the
steady rise and fall of his breathing and the strong, rhythmic beating of
his loving heart keeping time with the throbbing artery in his
neck. Slowly, I toy with his nipples teasing them into needle-points of
pleasure. He stirs, opens his eyes and looks at me then smiles. Mirrored in
the Nordic blue of his eyes, I see his warmth and love for me and as
always, I am overcome by my love for him. Impulsively, I lower my head to
kiss him. Our mouths touch and our lips part as our tongues entwine and
sinuously dance together.

We are lost in the moment and don't hear our grooms enter the stables. We
only become aware of their presence when we are told to stand so that they
can make us ready for our Master. Outside the stable it is barely daylight
and I wonder why our Master requires us so early.

I notice the grooms' apprehension and nervousness and obviously something
has happened to subdue them. My curiosity is aroused and I ask why Guy
Maratier requires us in harness so early; much earlier than is normal.

Then they tell us of a momentous event.

Just a few minutes ago, Guy Maratier received news of his beloved
grandmother, Charlotte Maratier's death. She'd died peacefully in her sleep
two hours ago. The grooms tell us that our Master is inconsolable and has
ordered that we be harnessed and ready for him to leave within the quarter
hour.

The grooms tell us there's no time to feed and water us or to take us to
the latrines. And of course there isn't time to groom us.  They barely have
time to place Norge and me in black harness - I suppose this is to be the
first sign to the casual observer that Guy Maratier is in mourning - and to
hitch us to the cart. In fact, they are still fastening us between the
shafts as Guy Maratier hurries across the yard to where we are waiting.

I barely have time to note the greyish pallor of his face or his red-rimmed
eyes brimming with tears before he climbs into the driver's seat and
silently takes the proffered reins from a nervous groom. He unfurls the
driver's whip and savagely lashes out at Norge's and my unprotected bodies
and instructs us to.

"WALK ON!"

There is the sound of urgency in his command and once more he applies the
whip to us.

As well-trained ponies, Norge and I don't normally run under the whip. It's
true our driver does use it on us as we run before him but this is for
ascetic reasons and to let us know he is in control. And I suspect there is
an erotic charge at play in his use of the whip; certainly there was for me
when, as a free man, I drove a pony in harness.

Then, I'd delighted in watching the powerful interplay of the slave's back
muscles as he ran before me. I'd salivated at the undulations of his
ass-cheeks and his low hanging balls swinging freely between his flexing
thighs. And with each stroke of my whip - always applied lightly to avoid
any lasting damage to the pony - my cock grew harder. For me there was no
more satisfying sight than to see the red stripes of my whip on the sweaty
shoulders and ass of my pony. And I suspect this is much the same for our
driver.

However, this morning it is different for Guy Maratier drives us like a man
possessed. He is unrelenting in his demands of us and merciless in his
application of the whip to see we meet those demands. His whip is never
still.

My pony training at La Forˆt had been intensive and it had prepared me
well for my role as a pony slave. Once I'd overcome the shame of running
naked through the city streets, I'd even found satisfaction in my new
role. Running with Norge at my side challenged me to strive to be the best
that I could while his longer experience set the challenge which I
endeavoured to match.

Even now a friendly rivalry exists between us as we match the pace of our
running and our steps to one another. We are both in superb physical
condition and each of us is filled with boundless energy that must be
released through physical exertion. Paradoxically, even though I am
restricted by the harness that binds me to Guy Maratier's cart, I find
freedom in my labours. How can I describe the exuberance I feel as I run
alongside Norge with the sun's warmth on my body and the wind tossing my
hair? And what can match the stressed beauty of Norge's form or the heady
aroma of his sweat-soaked torso shackled just a few inches away from me?

However, my initial training and subsequent experience hasn't prepared me
for this morning's run. Consumed by his grief, Guy Maratier doesn't give
our wellbeing a second thought. Under the savage onslaught of his whip he
makes us run at an unprecedented speed and still he isn't satisfied.

And for some reason, I seem to be bearing the brunt of his
impatience. Certainly, I am feeling the whip's fiery bite more often than
Norge.

Soon my chest is heaving with the exertion of our running and my heart and
lungs feel as though they are at bursting point. Despite the early morning
coolness, sweat flows in ever quickening rivulets down my torso and my legs
turn to jelly. Panicky, I feel that I am on the verge of collapse. But the
whip's savage fury doesn't allow me to give into myself; just when I feel I
can go no further, the lash sears its dreadful pain into my yielding flesh
and from some hidden reserve of energy deep within me, I find the strength
to continue and to put the next foot forward. And I can tell by Norge's
tortured breathing and pain racked face that he is as distressed as I am.

It is still early morning, the streets are deserted and our driver is able
to have us run at breakneck speed. There's no pedestrian or vehicular
traffic about to impede our progress or to slow us down and we arrive at
the very recently deceased Charlotte Maratier's home in record
time. Fortunately, for us, her home is but a short distance from her
grandson's home. It's a journey Norge and I have made on numerous occasions
and it had always been a pleasant jog which had never overtaxed us.

As we are driven up the sweeping driveway to the house, the pounding of our
feet and the scrunching of the cart's wheels in the loose gravel announce
our arrival to the major domo and a house slave who wait under the portico
for us. Guy pulls back hard on the reins to bring us to a sudden halt
causing the bits to cut cruelly into the corners of our mouths. The house
slave hurries forward to take the reins from a distraught Guy as he jumps
out of the driver's seat, speaks briefly to the major domo and hurries
indoors.

Norge and I are left to recover and to wait until we are next
required. Slowly our laboured breathing returns to normal and the jellylike
quivering in our stressed legs eases. The slave left in charge of us leads
us into the shade of a large, spreading oak of venerable age and brings us
fresh water to drink and a bucket in which to relieve our overfull
bladders. Never has water tasted so good - truly it is nectar of the gods -
nor was a piss ever more satisfying.

I look towards the house and see that the drapes are drawn and a funereal
laurel wreath hangs on the front door. Already Charlotte Maratier's
household has gone into mourning lamenting her demise.

I'm aware of the deep affection that Guy Maratier has for his grandmother
and I know that he would be inconsolable in his grief for her. But it's not
a grief that I share. While it was never in my nature to wish ill on any
person, nevertheless it would be hypocritical of me to say I didn't feel
some pleasure in her death. Truthfully, there is a sense of elation that
the woman who was my Nemesis is no more.

She was, after all, the architect of my downfall. It was her pathological
hatred of her former Barrois family that saw me stripped of my name, my
identity, all of my worldly possessions and enslaved. How then can I feel
any pity for this detestable woman who'd hated me with such malevolence? By
her actions, she had forever changed the circumstances of my life.

However, whilst her departure from the world gives me some small measure of
satisfaction, I soberly remind myself that nothing changes for me with her
death. Bitterly, her legacy lives on in the fact that I am still a slave
while her grandson and great grandson now possess everything that was once
mine.

Guy:

Damn these ponies! I am overwhelmed by my grief and I desperately need to
be with my deceased grandmother - and quickly. Why can't they run faster?
It's obvious I have been too lenient with them and allowed them to become
lazy. I rarely place great demands on them and on this one occasion, when I
really need them to fully extend themselves, they fail me.  Well then, I
have no other option but to liberally apply the whip to their lazy hides. I
unfurl my whip and bring it into play lashing their lazy asses and
shoulders constantly until they reach the speed I demand of them.

Although my grandmother's death was inevitable, it still comes as a shock
to me. I was woken from my sleep and told a slave from her household had
sad news for me. I'd hurried downstairs to where the slave waited and
listened as he fearfully told me she'd passed away peacefully in her
sleep. I suppose there is some small measure of comfort in hearing that her
passing was peaceful and that she hadn't suffered. Although her stroke had
been debilitating and had robbed her of her mobility and speech, I
nevertheless clung to her and wanted her to live. This was selfish of me I
know but she was such a fixture in my life that I couldn't contemplate her
never being there for me. She'd been my rock and my anchor and together,
we'd weathered many storms.

Our lives were defined by our poverty - a poverty forced upon her by the
cruel rejection of her family because she'd dared to love and marry a man
far below her social status. Their rejection had hurt her - I know this
because she'd told me so on many occasions - and her disinheritance had
seen her condemned to a poverty-stricken existence. Slowly, over the years,
her hurt and bitterness festered deep within her and ate away at her spirit
like a malevolent cancer. Incrementally, as her hatred for her family grew,
her need for revenge against them increased proportionally.

Who can blame her for becoming the embittered soul that she was. But I knew
another side to my grandmother; the one who loved me unconditionally. And
it is a love I return in equal measure.

This need for revenge against the Barrois family became the daily mantra
she lived by and throughout my formative years, she'd instilled it into my
impressionable, young mind.  Eventually, I too came to hate the Barrois
name with passion and to share her need for revenge.

How glad I am that my beloved grandmother had lived to see the hated
Barrois name discredited and her own married name substituted in its
place. I know she'd derived great satisfaction in seeing all the Barrois
possessions pass from the control of the usurper, Lucien Barrois into my
Maratier hands. And how gratified she'd been when Lucien Barrois was
dispossessed and became the slave, Rafe.

This morning, Rafe runs before me and my attention is centred on him. I
reflect on my grandmother's unhappy life and Rafe becomes the
personification of the hated Barrois name and the embodiment of her long
years of suffering.

As I think about my grandmother's demise, a great sob wells up within my
chest and my tears for her passing flow freely. And, in my grief, I feel
anger and resentment towards Rafe.  Vindictively, I lash out at him with my
whip and apply it as never before. Usually, I take great care never to
apply the whip with too much force in case it permanently marks his
hide. This morning, I don't care. If my whip draws blood so be it. After
all, if all goes to plan, I'll soon be free of him and he'll probably end
up as a heavy duty, work slave working under an overseer's savage bullwhip
where, no doubt, his back will be laid open on many occasions.

My grief and anger consume me and the need to make Rafe pay for my
grandmother's unhappiness consumes me. I watch with satisfaction as my raw
emotions manifest themselves as angry, red stripes on his unprotected and
vulnerable body.

Finally, we arrive at my grandmother's home where her major domo, Cadmus
waits with another slave under the front portico. I pull the two ponies to
a sudden halt as the slave hurries forward to take their reins from me.
Cadmus's greeting is respectfully subdued and he expresses his condolences
to me. I thank him then hurry inside to spend time alone with my
grandmother where I can weep for her in private.

In my grief, I'm not able to think too far ahead. However, I know much
needs to be done and when I am over my initial grieving, I will send for
Simon Barrow to attend to them. How glad I am to have him to lean upon in
this moment of great personal loss and sorrow.



To be continued ......