Date: Mon, 28 Feb 2011 01:19:49 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: Changed Circumstances Chapter 9

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES

Chapter 9: 'The Homecoming'

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

Written by Jean-Christophe

"To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"

Chapter 9: 'The Homecoming'

 After the humiliation of running naked alongside Norge through the city,
I'd thought nothing else could cause me greater embarrassment. But I am
wrong. Returning to my "home" is to prove far more traumatic.

The house that had so recently belonged to me is located in a quiet,
exclusive cul-de-sac known as "Barrois Close". It is named in honour of one
of my very distinguished ancestors, but soon it will change to 'Maratier
Close' as the Barrois name is quickly expunged from all official records.

Our Master has slowed Norge to a walk and as we turn into Barrois Close,
I'm dismayed to see a group of my male neighbours waiting for our
arrival. News of my downfall travelled fast and once acquainted with my
changed circumstances, they'd hurriedly got together a "goodwill committee"
to welcome my Master into the area and to assure him of their continuing
good wishes. The instigator of this friendly gesture is the elderly doyen
of the neighbourhood, Major Thomas D Swanston (Ret.).

A stickler for correctness and protocol, Major Swanston, was a long-time
friend of my grandfather and I'd known him all my life. As a small boy, I'd
spent many happy hours visiting his house-adjacent to our own- looking at
his impressive collection of military memorabilia and listening in boyish
awe to his many swashbuckling stories of a brilliant, army career. He is a
man I've always liked and admired and when my grandfather died, he'd
replaced him as a 'de facto' grandfather figure.  Increasingly, I found
myself seeking his advice or opinions on any matters troubling me and I
greatly valued his no nonsense, military-style approach and undoubted
wisdom.

On my way out just after lunch, I saw the Major working with his slaves in
his gardens-of which he is inordinately proud- and I'd paused Norge so that
we could talk about my concerns with the court summons I'd received that
morning. In his usual, level-headed manner, he'd convinced me I shouldn't
be too concerned and that it was most likely something "trivial" and simply
a matter of clarifying some minor point in my grandfather's will. In any
case, he made me promise to visit him that evening and over drinks, tell
him what had transpired at the courts.

Re-assured, I whipped Norge into action and continued onto the courts.

Now my appearance before the Major as a naked, branded slave unnerves me.

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

Guy Maratier is pleasantly surprised by this warm display of friendliness
from his new neighbours. In fact, he has been overwhelmed by the many
expressions of good wishes he has received this afternoon. They began with
Judge Matthew's warm deliverance in handing down the judgement that saw him
restored to his rightful place in society and these continued as he left
the courts and drove through town. But to be so warmly greeted by these
people who are now his neighbours is unexpected. He thought there would be
some resentment from them for the part he'd played in the downfall of their
neighbour, Lucien Barrois. But this isn't the case and their welcome is
most cordial.

Wrongly, he'd supposed there would be widespread opposition to his claiming
the Barrois estate and he'd been surprised when this hadn't happened. Firm
in his belief that the Maratier family had been unfairly treated and that
he, as the oldest, male descendent of the Barrois family is the "true"
heir, he'd remained strong in his resolve to claim what is rightly his and
he'd never faltered. And as he looks at his new slave, Rafe he has an
intensely satisfying sense of "revenge sought and found".

From his earliest years he'd known he had Barrois blood in his veins and
that this came to him through his paternal grandmother, Charlotte Maratier
(nee Barrois). Charlotte, who'd been cruelly rejected by her parents for
making an "unsuitable" marriage, never forgave the family for its
repudiation of her and her son -Guy's father-and never missed an
opportunity to remind her grandson of the Barrois' "treachery". It was
inevitable then that Guy Maratier grew up with a deep seated hatred of his
great-uncle and his distant cousin Lucien.

Bitterly, Charlotte watched from a distance as her brother lavished all his
love and money on his orphaned grandson, Lucien while she and her family
languished in near poverty. Her simmering resentment of Lucien festered
beneath her otherwise calm exterior and reached flashpoint on the death of
her brother, Jean-Claude Barrois. Even at that late stage, Charlotte had
hoped for some reconciliation with the family; she'd always hoped that her
grandson would share in the estate and inherit a sizeable portion of the
immense Barrois fortune. When this didn't happen and Lucien emerged as the
sole beneficiary, all the years of her resentment and pent-up anger
exploded with volcanic force. It was at that time she began to work
relentlessly to bring down the "upstart "Lucien by any means at her
disposal.

It was Charlotte who unearthed the dark secret of Lucien's birth-that he
was slave born-and it was she who "encouraged" Guy Maratier to pursue the
matter through the Court of Disputations. Guy sometimes doubted the truth
of this story of Lucien's birth and wondered whether it is a carefully
concocted lie born out of his grandmother's all consuming hatred. He
suspected the latter but didn't really care whether Lucien was slave-born
or free. Did it really matter; after all he is now the sole inheritor of
the Barrois fortune and he doesn't intend to share it with anyone. But he
does enjoy the notion of there being some doubt that Lucien is genuinely
the offspring of a slave woman. If so, Guy appreciates the grim irony of
Lucien now being the slave Rafe and the thought that he could be wrongfully
enslaved only adds to that enjoyment.

One day, he'll ask his grandmother for the truth or otherwise of Lucien's
birth. If it's true that Lucien wasn't born a slave, then at some time in
the future he will taunt the slave Rafe with this fact. But not until Rafe
has been broken in spirit and suffered as a slave should.

He has plans for Rafe and setting him free isn't one of them. Quite the
contrary, he'd spent many hours contemplating Rafe's future as a slave.

In his mind's eye, he'd seen his cousin working naked in the fields at "La
Foret', bent double and sweating under the overseers' whips or strung up on
a whipping frame and punished for some infraction of the rules-imaginary or
otherwise, it didn't really matter. On some occasions, he'd imagined he'd
delivered the chastisements himself and "saw" Lucien's naked body squirming
under his cane or whip. Of course he'd never seen the former Lucien in his
naked state and it was left to his imagination to visualise the body he was
punishing. But now he has seen the slave, Rafe in all his naked glory and
he is enraptured with his new slave's magnificent body.

Having Rafe run alongside Norge has given him the opportunity to observe
that body in action. He admires the strength of the slave's back as it
sweeps concavely down from the broad shoulders to the narrow waist and the
convex curves of a perfectly rounded arse. As Rafe ran, Guy watched the
display of this muscle power; the rippling of the back muscles, the
undulating movements of the buttocks and the flexing of the corded muscles
of the legs. He was intoxicated with his new power over the slave and
lovingly "caressed" Rafe's body with his driver's whip.

It had been his intention to send Rafe to the unrelenting hard labour and
strict discipline of the fields at "La Foret". Guy had decided that Rafe
was to truly experience life as a common work slave and once his spirit had
been broken and his body honed to rocklike perfection then and only then,
would he submit his slave to the ultimate humiliation. He planned
eventually to sell him at public auction.  The thought of Rafe publicly
displayed and paraded before the buyers before standing on the auction
block had fed his imagination and whetted his appetite for revenge. But now
he isn't so sure.

He'd watched Rafe run alongside the pony -what's his name, Norge yes that's
it-and was struck by the similarities between the two slaves. Naturally,
Norge is at the peak of condition-his training as a pony is obviously
responsible for this-but Rafe is less so. Still Rafe's body does hold
promise of at least equalling the pony's strength and stamina and the two
look good running together; both of the same colouring, they are a
perfectly matched pair.  Now Guy has a sudden change of heart.

He'll still send Rafe to "la Foret" for service in the fields. There the
hard labour and rigours of servitude will prepare him for his new role as a
pony and it will serve to darken his hide to a more agreeable colour and
remove the ghostly white of his midriff.  And while he's at "La Foret", Guy
will have the slave broken to harness and trained in endurance carriage
pulling before pairing him with Norge.

The thought of using Rafe as a naked pony is one that excites him. This
image of Rafe straining in his harness and running under the whip is a
powerful one. He imagines the shame and humiliation of the former Lucien
Barrois-now the pony Rafe-as he is made to pull his Master publicly through
the streets of the city.

In the interim he'll have a special, two pony carriage designed and made to
his specifications; one that better reflects his new status. And of course,
he'll need new sets of matching harnesses for his two ponies. What colour
harness would best match their colouring? Red? Blue? What about black with
silver embossing? Possibly all three? Why not? With his newly acquired
wealth he's now in a position where expense is no longer a consideration.

Guy knows that Rafe is twenty-one and he guesses that Norge is of a similar
age. He'll drive them till they are twenty-five-or until he grows bored
with them-and then send them to auction. Before then, he'll make it his
business to find out the true circumstances of Lucien's birth. Should it
turn out that Lucien isn't slave-born, he'll acquaint Rafe of that as he
delivers him to the slave-dealers. He chuckles at the delightful irony of
this and at Rafe's continuing despair of knowing he's been unjustly
enslaved.

Guy thinks fondly of his grandmother and the enormous debt he owes her and
he plans to re-instate her to her proper place in society. Tomorrow he
intends to show this gratitude and will instruct his solicitor, Simon
Barrow to purchase a suitable property for her and to staff it with enough
slaves to allow her to live in the comfort long denied her by her parents
and brother.

But for Charlotte Maratier (formerly Barrois) the greatest reward of all is
seeing her late brother's name disgraced and his upstart grandson reduced
to the level of a common slave. Added to this is the personal satisfaction
of seeing her grandson, Guy Maratier and his son, Etienne restored to their
rightful places.

That the once illustrious Barrois name is now disgraced and will be
replaced by her married name is bitter-sweet revenge.

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

Our Master commands us to stop and both Norge and I are happy to comply
with his order. After the long, exhausting run out from the city centre we
are both tired, me more so than Norge. Our sweat bathed chests heave from
our exertions and our trembling legs barely support us. I think of the
numerous times when unthinkingly, I'd forced Norge to run at this pace and
energetically encouraged him to do so with my whip. Then, I'd never given
any thought to his discomfort; now I share his pain.

I watch as my Master is surrounded by my former neighbours who cluster
around him slapping his back and pumping his hand as they offer him their
best wishes on his sudden good fortune. He stands at their centre and beams
broadly. I on the other hand stand apart with Norge and thankfully they
ignore me; I really don't want their attention. My sense of shame at
returning to my former home as a naked slave is devastatingly
obvious. Perhaps out of a sense of mutual embarrassment, they will not want
to acknowledge my presence among them. However, I am to be disappointed.

Now that all the hand-pumping and good wishes are out of the way, the men
in the group turn their attention to me. Their curiosity aroused, they ask
my Master's permission to examine me and it's a permission that's readily
given. The first to approach me is my "de facto" grandfather figure, Major
Swanston. In the best military tradition, I am authoritatively commanded
to,

"STAND UP STRAIGHT, BOY! Don't slouch. You know better than that. A slave
stands to attention in the presence of a free person."

I'm shocked at the callousness of his command. Here is the man I've known
all of my life and with whom I've spent so many happy, boyhood hours now
speaking to me as if he doesn't know me and I am just a slave he's
encountered for the first time. And in truth, that is exactly the
situation. I am now a slave and this is our first encounter as free man and
slave.

I'd been in his company often enough to observe his treatment of his own
slaves. Always the martinet, he handled them with firm resolve and it would
be fair to say his slaves lived in a perpetual state of
apprehension. Impatient and quick to temper, he spared them neither the rod
nor the whip.  He'd erected a whipping post and a flogging frame in his
backyard and it's doubtful if a day passes without them being put to use. I
have been present at some of these punishments and he'd always impressed
upon me the necessity to be firm with a slave and to chastise him for even
the smallest infringement. Now he's addressing me in the exact, same manner
as he does his slaves. My humiliation at standing naked in front of him and
my former neighbours overwhelms me and unthinkingly, I hasten to obey his
command.

This man who'd once bounced me as a toddler on his knee now runs his hands
over my chest and tests for the hardness of my muscles and the firmness of
my body. I blush as his hands wander down over my belly to stroke my cock
to a partial erection and I wince as he takes my balls into his hands and
gently "rolls" them between his finger and thumb before volunteering the
information to his watching audience that,

"It's always one of the first places I check out when I'm examining a
slave. You need to know that his cock and balls are in good working order."

"Then tell us, Major, are there other places you check for soundness?"

I blush at the question asked by another of my former neighbours and cringe
at the Major's answers.

"Well a quick visual appraisal of a slave's body usually tells me if a
further 'hands-on' inspection is warranted and in the case of this slave it
most definitely is. Let me congratulate you, Mr Maratier.  You have a most
desirable property in this slave.  Then as I said I always check a slave's
genitals followed by his rectum and mouth. For me a sound mouth and teeth,
clean genitalia and a tight anus are the basic essentials of a healthy
slave."

"And is he sound, Major?"

"Most definitely so. Mr. Maratier, I suppose he's to lose this?" the Major
asks as he disdainfully toys with my foreskin.

"Yes! He'll be skinned as soon as I can arrange for it to be done." My
Master replies before inviting his new neighbours to drop the more formal
'Mr Maratier' and call him by his given name.

"And how do we sound it. Soft as in 'key' or hard as in 'pie'?"

"It's French and pronounced softly." My Master, proud of his French
ancestry explains.

Once more there are handshakes all around as the neighbours acquaint my
Master with their given names.

I stand docilely as the Major runs his hands down over my back to my arse
where he inspects my new brand and squeeze my buttocks in a test of their
firmness.

"Excellent! I like a slave to have a meaty arse. It's usually a good sign
that he'll make a good field- hand. What are your plans for this slave,
Guy? Are you going to use him in the house or the fields?"

"Major, for now, I intend to send him out to 'La Foret' to work as a field
slave but longer term I see him as a pony paired with Norge."

"Good! I like your no nonsense approach to how the slave should be used,
Guy. Work him hard in the fields to condition him before using him as a
pony. I've known this slave all his indolent life-he's never done a hard
day's work and wouldn't know how to- and he does need a spell out at 'La
Foret' to toughen him up and get him thinking like a slave. My advice to
you would be to spare him neither hard work nor the whip."

"You needn't worry on that score, Major. He'll be worked long and hard and
punished if he doesn't give satisfaction."

"I very pleased to hear that, Guy. As a new slave he'll need firm handling
and guidance but I'm sure your overseers will be up to the task of training
him."

As he talks, the Major slips his finger into the cleft between my buttocks
and begins a probing search for my anus. My former neighbours are watching
with ill-concealed mirth as I squirm from both the indignity and discomfort
of this. Like a soldier on a parade ground, I'm ordered to,

"Relax! Stand easy!"

Mortified, I do as I'm commanded and wince as the Major's finger penetrates
my anus and thrusts deep into me. Involuntarily, I clench my buttocks and
tighten my sphincter around the Major's invading finger as it seeks out my
prostate. Once found the finger 'excites" me to a full erection.
Humiliated, I bow my head and the hot tears of my shame burn my face.

"HEY! Look at the pony. He's getting excited. It must be from watching the
Major inspect the new slave. " I hear one of the neighbours laughing.

Temporarily, all attention diverts from me and it now centres on Norge and
I look to see what it is that is attracting their attention; Norge is
unashamedly and rampantly erect.

Norge is prodigiously endowed and it was this that had first attracted me
to him at the slave brokers.  Of course, in the interim, I had "improved"
him by removing his foreskin; but only after it had lost its novelty for
me. Now his massive cock and balls are prominently displayed by the cinch
I'd had fitted to him and which serves to place everything on show. At
first he'd been humiliated by this-and now it's a shame I'm quickly
learning-but my desire was paramount. He was the slave and I was the
master. I delighted in "exhibiting" him and readily agreed to the frequent
requests from others to "inspect" him. I basked in their glowing
compliments and fulsome praise of my pony. Now as I stand tethered to
Norge, I feel the shame that was once his.

The time spent as my pony has served Norge well. The shame and shyness he'd
felt when he first became my personal pony have vanished to be replaced by
a quiet acceptance of what these men are now subjecting him to. In the
midst of their lewd comments and crude laughter he stands uprightly tall
with a dignity I'd never noticed before. As one by one, their hands feel
the hot hardness of his erection and weigh his balls, he remains calm with
his gaze fixed doggedly above their heads. Suddenly, with my eyes now open
to the cruel realities of slavery, I see his dignity which is in sharp
contrast to the vulgarity of these men who torment him. But the realisation
that they are free while Norge and I are slaves only adds to my newly
acquired sense of powerlessness.

As I look at Norge, I'm conscious of my own powerful erection and I give a
soft sigh of relief as the Major withdraws his finger from my arse. He now
turns his attention to Norge and in deference to his rank; the other
neighbours move aside allowing him access to Norge's cock.

The Major stands directly in front of Norge and me, so close in fact, that
I can smell the whisky and cigars -of which he is so fond-on his breath. He
slowly works Norge's prick by moving his hand up and down the thick
shaft. Norge stands impassive as the Major pumps his cock and though it
goes unnoticed by the watchers, I do see Norge's response in his heightened
breathing and the twitching of his muscles. As I watch, I'm unprepared for
the Major's next move. Reaching out, he now takes my cock in his other
hand.

By this public action, the Major demonstrates to me my worthlessness as a
person and my powerlessness as a slave. As he holds Norge's cock in his
left hand and mine in his right hand, he slowly works both simultaneously
to the amusement of the onlookers and I'm painfully aware of my new
status. Like Norge, I'm a slave and we are subject to the whims of all free
persons. What the Major is doing to us denies us any dignity or
respect. Indeed, to his mind and those of his audience, we are undeserving
of any such considerations. We are slaves and stand at just one level above
that of other domesticated animals.  And ironically, just a few short hours
ago, I would have agreed with him wholeheartedly.

I steel myself not to respond to the Major's touch. I suspect he senses my
reluctance to co-operate and obviously it is now a contest of wills between
us. He can't be seen to "lose face' to a slave and he's determined to win;
there can be no question of him being bested by me. His hand action takes
me to such a degree of hardness that my balls tighten in their sac and my
prick stands out at right angles to my belly. He strips my prepuce back
along the shaft of my cock and teases me by lightly flicking his finger
across the sensitive opening of my piss-slit. He looks at me and smiles as
he notes the rhythmic throbbing of my cock, my heightened breathing, the
quickening rise and fall of my chest and the fluttering of my stomach
muscles. Apparently satisfied, he releases both our cocks and steps back to
admire his "handiwork".

Both Norge and I are rampantly erect. Our cocks point with ramrod rigidity
towards our smirking audience who obviously take pleasure in our
humiliation. With my head bowed in shame, I see my precum hanging in a
viscous thread from my cockhead. My sideways glance at Norge shows him to
be similarly affected.

Inexplicably, I'm comforted by Norge's presence as he stands alongside of
me and strangely I draw strength from his stoicism. It is as though we are
brothers in adversity and I'm thankful that he is sharing this appalling
experience with me. How much worse it would be for me if I stood alone
among my former neighbours.

"Excellent! Very Good!" The major exclaims, "Guy, both slaves have firm
erections which speaks well for their abilities to breed should you wish to
use them that way."

I'm horrified at the Major's suggestion. The very thought that I could be
used as a stud and mated like an animal terrifies me. But the appalling
thought goes through my mind that should my Master wish to use me as a stud
then there's nothing I could do about it. My sexual preferences have always
been with my male, pleasure slaves and my like-minded male friends. The
truth is I haven't any close females in my life. Therefore, I'm relieved to
hear my Master's answer.

"I haven't gotten around to thinking about such matters, Major. To tell you
the truth, I just want to take my time and familiarise myself with
everything about the Barrois interests. I plan on taking Rafe out to 'La
Foret' at my earliest convenience so that I can get him working in the
fields but beyond that I haven't any other plans."

"So you've named the slave, Rafe? It's a good slave name. You couldn't have
allowed him to keep his old name, Lucien. It's far too pretentious a name
for a slave. You've given him a new name for a new life. And you're right
to take your time to familiarise yourself with your new, good fortune.
Please remember, if I can be of any assistance to you don't hesitate to
ask."

"Thank you, Major. I'll keep that in mind."

If I thought the Major is finished with me then I am wrong. Suddenly, he
moves to me and pushes my head backwards before pinching my nostrils closed
and forcing me to breathe through my mouth. Now he runs his finger around
the inside of my mouth checking the health of my gums and the soundness of
my teeth. I wonder-is the finger now in my mouth the same one that had just
probed the depths of body and teased the head of my cock? I am repulsed by
the notion of this and gag as the finger begins an examination of my
tongue. Finally, his inspection of me completed, the Major gives his
verdict.

"You're to be congratulated on your new slave, Guy. I can't fault
him. Trained properly and handled firmly he should reward you many times
over. But we shouldn't hold you any longer. I know there are court
officials waiting for you at your new home to assist you in taking
possession of your property."

"Thank you, Major. And thank you all for your warm welcome. Allow me time
to settle in and I'll have you all visit for drinks one evening soon." My
Master issues an invitation his new neighbours.

"There's just one more thing, Guy. Should you ever need to flog a slave
you're most welcome to use my facilities. You'll notice you don't have a
whipping-post or a flogging frame at your home. For some reason, the
previous owners never bothered to erect one. I suggest you consider
rectifying that situation as soon as possible. I know from my experience
that it does wonders for my slaves' attitudes; the realisation that they
can be strung up at any time and flogged is a powerful deterrent to bad
behaviour. Just the fact of having one on the property exercises their
minds wonderfully. So feel free to use mine until you have your own up and
running."

"Thank you, Major for your kind offer. I'll bear it in mind."

It's true, there'd never been a whipping-post erected at my home but not
because I didn't believe in flogging a slave if necessary.

My grandmother, when she was alive, considered the house and its
surroundings as her domain and barred the use of the whip and the flogging
post from its precincts. Genteel by nature, she saw the whipping of a slave
as "men's business" and as such it should be conducted well out of her
sight and earshot. She considered the sound of a whip flailing against
naked flesh and the distress of the slave being flogged as distasteful. She
was just as adamant that no slave working in the house or gardens should
show the permanent scars of a flogging. Accordingly, on those rare
occasions when one of our house servants warranted the whip, he'd be taken
to "La Foret" for his whipping and then remain there as a field slave. Our
slaves were well aware of what to expect should they prove troublesome and
it was only on very rare occasions that we had to resort to such drastic
measures.

Grandmother did however approve of the mild chastisement of a slave and she
never hesitated to send an offending slave off to Cato, our house steward
for a session with the rattan cane or the paddle. Consequently, after the
death of my grandparents, I'd continued not to use either a whipping-post
or a flogging frame but I never spared my slaves either a caning or a
paddling if it was warranted. Now I wonder if my Master will see a need for
the erection of these grim instruments of punishment.

My Master takes his leave from his new friends and is now back in the
driver's seat; he walks Norge and I the final fifty metres to the house
that just six hours ago had been mine.

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

My homecoming is proving to be a bitter one. Guy Maratier drives us through
the archway into the central courtyard of the townhouse that now belongs to
him and commands us to halt. I'm dismayed to see all the household servants
are lined up under the supervision of Cato, the house steward.  Standing
apart from the slaves are my former attorney, Simon Barrow and two other
men.
 I'm very aware that my former slaves' eyes are focussed on me and who can
blame them. Six short hours ago I had left here as their Master; I had
owned them body and soul and they treated me with all due awe and
respect. Now I return not as their Master but as one of them-a slave. Like
them I am naked, branded and collared and I now share the same new Master.

 No doubt they are as shocked and bewildered at this sudden turn of events
as I am; but for different reasons. I have suffered the most. I have been
ripped from the pinnacle of wealth and prestige and plunged into the depths
of despair. Nothing much has changed for them; they are still slaves and
they have simply had their former master replaced by a new and as yet
unknown master.

I try to imagine their thoughts. What are they thinking as they look at me?
With their eyes fixed upon me, I blush with shame and my cock, so recently
excited by Major Swanston, wilts. Forbidden to talk, they can't comment,
but the wide smiles on their faces tell me all I need to know; they are
enjoying my predicament. I wonder how they'll receive me. Will my presence
overwhelm them or am I to be ostracised and perhaps, as the "new boy",
bullied by them?  Inevitably, I'll be left alone with them and I will spend
my first night as a slave locked in the same slave quarters as them. The
thought of this worries me. How will they re-act to me? What will they do?
It occurs to me that I have never visited the slave quarters of what was
once my home. I'd always considered it beneath me to be seen there and I'd
always left the management of the slave quarters to my steward, Cato.

Consequently, I haven't any idea of how my former slaves live and now I
wonder about this. Where do they eat and how do they eat? I don't even know
if they eat communally from a common vessel or if each has his own
bowl. And what are their sleeping arrangements? Do they have beds to sleep
in or do they simply sleep on straw as do the field slaves at 'La
Foret". One thing I do know however is that they are placed in chains over
night and their quarters are securely locked. This procedure was introduced
by my grandfather who never quite trusted his slaves and I'd continued with
the practice after his death.

Excluding Cato, there are currently fifteen slaves in the group. All are
prime, young males who were chosen by me for their exceptional beauty and
strength. Quite deliberately I'd decided not to use females in the house
once my grandparents had died and I had sent all their female slaves to the
slave dealers as a "job lot". Thereafter, I only bought handsome, young,
male slaves for domestic duties.  I always chose the slaves I wanted to
serve me in my homes carefully. I saw these slaves as adornments to my
gracious lifestyle and like all my other expensive works of art I took
great pleasure and pride in them.

Six of these slaves are employed outdoors attending to the extensive
gardens that were my grandmother's pride and joy, the maintenance and
upkeep of the house-just keeping the large, two story, mansion painted
pristine white keeps two of them fully employed-and any other tasks that
Cato deemed necessary.

Of the remaining nine, three are employed in the kitchen as cooks and
scullery hands and five as housekeepers responsible for maintaining the
good order of the house and to serve as waiters in the dining room. That
just left Ben, who until now used to be my personal body slave and
valet. He is an exceptionally beautiful, young slave and I'm quite fond of
him. He has served me loyally and well both in and out of my bed.  Aged
perhaps nineteen of twenty-I'm not sure, but then who does know or cares
about a slave's exact age-he'd served me with doglike devotion. Our morning
showers together are always memorable, so much so that I found myself
revisiting the shower with him two or three times a day. And of course
there is Cato.

Cato has been a part of my life forever; I can't remember when he wasn't
there. He has been the household steward to both my grandparents and I and
I couldn't imagine the house operating without his commonsense and firm
handling of the household slaves. Aged in his fifties, my grandfather had
purchased him as a young slave to serve as his body servant. A strong bond
had developed between them and growing up, I sometimes thought this went
beyond the usual master/slave relationship. Perhaps I'm attributing
something of myself to my grandfather in supposing there was a sexual
relationship between them. I have to say if this was so, then it was very
carefully concealed from everyone. But I sometimes wondered if my
grandmother ever had her suspicions; if she did then she was discreet and
kept them to herself. Often, as I look at Cato, I can visualise him as a
younger slave and sometimes I feel a stirring in my loins.

Even today, he is still an impressive slave. Once he'd had jet black hair-I
do remember it -but now it is peppered with white giving him a
distinguished look and it's a look that is most unbecoming for a
slave. Over six feet tall, he is powerfully built with a muscular
frame. Unlike my other slaves, I've never seen Cato nude. My grandfather
defied convention and allowed Cato to wear a sleeveless neck to knee tunic
fastened at the waist by a wide leather belt. Made from a coarsely woven,
unbleached material, Cato nevertheless wore it with pride. In a society
that demands total nudity for its slaves, he is indeed
privileged. Grandfather always insisted that it was fitting for the steward
of the Barrois household to be uniformed. I suppose allowing him to wear
clothing does elevate him in the eyes of our other slaves who are required
always to address him respectfully as "boss".

As a further mark of his authority over the house-slaves, he always has a
cane tucked into his belt.  Cato had my authority to use the cane-at his
discretion-to maintain order and discipline over the junior slaves at all
times. As their Master, I didn't want to be disturbed by the petty
misdemeanours of my slaves. I had complete trust in Cato to deal
effectively with such trivialities. Only recently, I'd given him with one
of the new "Whippistik"canes that I'd introduced out at "La Foret".
Several days ago, he'd told me how effective this new cane is proving to be
and how the slaves fear it more than the conventional cane.  I too can
vouch for its effectiveness having experienced its excruciating sting
earlier this afternoon at the law-courts.

Then suddenly the thought bursts through into my consciousness. I would now
fall under Cato's authority and I, who was once his master, will now have
to address him respectfully as "boss". This latest humiliation only
compounds the many others I've suffered this afternoon.

Norge and I stand motionless as our Master converses with Simon Barrow and
the other two men.  These are the court officials sent along by Judge
Matthews to assist in the "transfer" of the house to Guy Maratier. After
several minutes, Simon Barrow beckons for Cato to join them. I'm not privy
to the discussions and from where I stand I can't hear what they are
saying. But I can tell by the body language of the group that Cato is being
presented to his new Master and he bows his head in acknowledgement of
this. Then follows a long conversation between Guy Maratier and Cato-with
Guy mostly doing the talking and Cato the listening before giving the
occasional answer to a question-and there is much gesticulation as Cato
points to the group of nervous slaves. Finally they turn in my direction
and I know they are now discussing me.  I bow my head in shame as the group
move in my direction and stand before me. My Master is the first to speak.

"Well Cato! It is Cato isn't it? This is your former master. He's now the
slave, Rafe. Do you have a problem with that? I need to know if it will be
necessary to replace you as my steward."

"No Master," Cato answers, "I am a slave and as such I faithfully served
two previous masters before you and I will serve you as I served them - as
your loyal and obedient slave."

"Good! Then you'll continue to serve me as my steward. I'll certainly need
your assistance in the coming days to explain how my household operates."

"Thank you, Master. Should you seek my advice I'm ready to give it." Cato
replies respectfully.  "Master, can I ask a question?"

"If it concerns the household, then yes, you have my permission to ask."

I reflect bitterly on how quickly Guy Maratier is moving into his new role
of a master; he now speaks with a new and growing confidence.

"Master, How is your new slave to be treated? Is he to be given any special
consideration?"

"Most definitely not, Cato! He is a slave and the same as all my other
slaves. You'll treat him as you do them. He's not to receive any favours
and if he requires punishment then so be it."

"Master, my former masters allowed me to exercise discipline over their
slaves. Is that to continue?  Can I still use my cane on a slave if I
consider it is warranted?"

"Cato, you have my full confidence. You'll continue on as you have always
done. The slave will be taken out to 'La Foret' eventually to work in the
fields. I had hoped that would be tomorrow. But from what I've just been
told, it seems that I'll be kept busy here in town for the next few
days. Tell me what is to be done with Rafe in the meantime? What would you
suggest?"

"Master, I'll make sure the slave is gainfully employed. He could work in
the kitchens assisting the cooks until you take him out to 'La Foret'. Or
perhaps you'd like to use him in the dining-room? Can I ask another
question about the slave, Master? Whenever my former masters brought a new
slave into the household, they always insisted that I cane him. They felt
it established their authority over the slave and at the same time gave him
a practical demonstration of what to expect should he give offence. Do you
want this practice to continue?"

This is true. Like my grandfather before me, I'd always insisted on caning
a new slave immediately after I'd brought him home from the market for the
reasons just given by Cato. Now, there is the very real possibility that
I'm to experience this for myself. Perhaps, my Master will discontinue this
practice. Fearfully, I await his decision.

"I like the idea of that, Cato.  But tell me where do you administer such a
caning? There doesn't appear to be a whipping post handy."

"Master! I use a portable whipping-horse in the stables. If you want, I can
have it brought out into the courtyard for a public caning."

"That's an excellent suggestion, Cato. We could cane Rafe in front of his
fellow slaves. That should fix in their minds that he is no longer their
master and he's now just a slave like them. Tell me, Cato, what is the
usual number of strokes administered to a new slave and where on his body
does the slave receive them?"

"The usual number is ten, Master. And they're delivered to the slave's
buttocks. But with Rafe we'll need to be careful not to damage his new
brand. But I can easily avoid it. It's not a problem."

"Very well then, Cato. Let's do it. But I think ten strokes aren't enough
in Rafe's case. Let's double that to twenty strokes shall we?"

"Certainly Master. Then with your permission Master, I'll have the horse
brought out into the yard."

"You have my permission to continue, Cato. And while you're doing that I'll
say goodbye to these gentlemen from the courts and then we can get on with
Rafe's caning."

It is now Simon Barrow's turn to speak.

"If it's alright with you Guy I'd like to hang around and watch as Rafe is
caned. I'll enjoy watching as the arrogant young prick finally gets what's
coming to him. I've always resented have to be so 'nice' to him, constantly
deferring to him, tugging the forelock so to speak and treating him as
though he was royalty. Yes sir, I'd enjoy seeing him squirm under the
cane. Can I stay and watch as he gets what's coming to him?"

"Of course Simon, you're more than welcome to stay and watch as my new
slave is "welcomed" into my household and afterwards why not join me for
dinner? You can fill me in on what is to happen in the transfer of the
Barrois assets over to me. Cato, can it be arranged for Mr Barrow to dine
with me this evening?

"Certainly Master, I'll see to it myself. Traditionally, dinner is at 2000
hours. Is this time suitable? Do you want this to continue?"

"That sounds good to me Cato. After you've caned Rafe you could perhaps
take Mr Barrow and me on an inspection of the house while we wait for
dinner to be prepared?"

"It would be an honour to show my new Master around his home."

Despairingly, my new life looms before me. I have lost everything. Within
the space of an afternoon, my fortune and position have been taken from me,
I have been enslaved and even my name has been stripped from me and
replaced with a slave name, Rafe. Humiliated, I was made to run naked
through the streets of the city and then presented to my former neighbours
as the collared and branded slave I now am. But my degradation doesn't end
there.

I now stand before my former slaves as one of them and soon I'm to be
humiliatingly chastised in their presence. Then, if Cato makes good with
his suggestion, I'll be put to work in the kitchens as a common drudge.

In my despair, my eyes mist over and I tremble as I think about my impeding
caning. I have already tasted the "Whippistik" today and I know of its
awful capacity to inflict pain. The notion that I'm to receive twenty
strokes of it fills me with dread.

I truly have hit rock bottom. I'm at the nadir of my existence.


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