Date: Mon, 29 Apr 2013 02:56:46 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Seeking Passage to Doraenium" (Gay Male/Authoritarian)

Seeking Passage to Doraenium
The Island of Mystery

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

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

"The characters and events in this story are purely fictitious and belong
to the writer's imagination. Please respect the integrity of the story and
don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add other people's pictures.

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Part 1:

We've all heard of Doraenium. From infancy, we'd been exposed to its
myths. Our parents had warned us with what happens to habitually "naughty
boys". The "bad men" would steal them from the safe bosom of their families
and spirit them away to far-off Doraenium and it was darkly hinted that
once they arrived there, they'd suffer all the torments of hell on earth.

Of course, this had the desired effect upon me as a boy. Even though I'd
shared the bravado of my young companions and laughingly scoffed at
Doraenium's existence - declaring it to be an urban myth along with trolls
and hobgoblins - I never the less retained a secret fear that, in fact, it
might exist. And it has to be said it was a modifying influence on my
youthful behaviour.

Later, as I grew older, I discovered that Doraenium did exist although it
was hard to distinguish fact from fiction or to sort the truth from the
wild stories of over-active, fevered imaginations.

From an early age - almost as soon as I could walk - I worked with my
blacksmith father in the small, rural, farming village we called home. The
village is my world and the furthest I have ventured from it is five miles
when, each midsummer, we'd go to the annual fair at our parish
market-town. I'd looked forward to these yearly outings as a boy and I
still do so as a seventeen year old youth. The months leading up to the
fair are busy ones for my father and me. In any spare time we have from our
main smithing duties; we forge all manner of small household items and
trinkets for sale at the stall my father sets up at one edge of the
market-square. The profits from this are small but given our poor
circumstances, every copper disc counts.

My name is Linus and at seventeen, I'm tall and as you'd expect of a
blacksmith, I have a strong muscular body. I have been told by the village
maidens that I am good looking and certainly I find all are most receptive
to my advances. I have to say rutting with them is a favourite pastime and
often, you'll find me in some haystack or stable loft buck-assed naked and
fucking for all I am worth.

Two years ago, at the parish fair, my father gave me a few pennies and sent
me to the local inn for a pork pie and a mug of ale. As you'd expect, the
inn was overcrowded and I found myself sitting at a table with a boisterous
group of strangers several years my senior. They welcomed me into their
group and I listened enchanted as they spoke of their many travels and
adventures in a world far beyond my own limited one. I heard of many
wondrous things - all beyond my peasant's simple comprehension - and I was
suddenly gripped with a desire to go and to see these things for myself.

Then, I heard mention of Doraenium and in my naivety, I asked if such a
place existed. My companions, obviously men of the world, laughed loudly
and asked where I'd lived all my life. Blushing from my embarrassment, I
told them that the fair is the furthest I've ever been from my home five
miles away. This surprised them; they stopped laughing and adopted a
kindlier attitude towards me and told me about Doraenium - a place they'd
all visited.

From them, I learned that Doraenium is a sizeable island about two day's
travel by galley to the West of our shoreline. Its verdant pastures and
forests shine emerald-green in the sparkling azure blue sea and its high
mountain peaks are mostly wreathed by cloud which gives Doraenium its
bountiful rainfall and rich pastures. But it was the island's inhabitants
that intrigued me the most.

My companions told me that the island is a slave society - mostly closed to
"outsiders" and that it is rigidly divided into two classes - masters and
slaves. And there are no mistresses or female slaves.

The masters live in unparalleled luxury and indolent pleasure served by
their subservient slaves. And the masters are excused from all physical
labours which are performed by those slaves.

The slaves, by comparison, live hard lives. They till the fields and grow
the crops. They tend the vines and crush the grapes to make the wine which
their owners imbibe to excess. They work the olive groves and fruit
orchards and harvest their ripened bounty.

On the farms, the slaves are yoked together and made to plough the fields
or, shackled in teams to farm carts they labour to haul their masters'
produce to market.

In the town, they transport their masters around in rickshaws or in heavy
litters carried on their brawny shoulders. Slaves serve their masters in
their homes and ominously from my point of view, in their beds.

All this was new and bewildering to me. The concept of slavery isn't
something that I am overly familiar with. It's true that I live in a feudal
society and as a peasant I am at the lowest rung of my community. And I'd
just accepted my lowly position in life and never questioned the status
quo. The mysterious powers that determine a man's destiny - even before his
birth - had assigned this role to me and it had never occurred to me that
my serfdom was akin to slavery. The fact that I was tied, by an accident of
birth, to my local lord's demesne wasn't something I'd ever given thought
to. These aren't matters for we peasants to consider; they are the province
of our feudal masters.

But listening to my companions, the concept of chattel slavery intrigued
me. Fascinated, I hung on to their every word. I heard how the natural
state for a slave on Doraenium is complete nakedness; apparently clothing
or a covering of any kind is forbidden them. Nudity in my community is
considered sinful and frowned upon and any offenders are publicly whipped.

Therefore to hear of a community where more than half the population - I
was told on Doraenium, slaves outnumber their masters by two to one - are
permanently nude both shocked and titillated me. At sixteen, I was
fascinated with both my own and the bodies of my youthful companions and
had been since the onset of puberty. And guiltily, it was the male body
that interested me the most despite my frequent couplings with the village
maidens.

I listened in slack-mouthed awe as my companions spoke of how slaves on
Doraenium are routinely sold along with the cattle, sheep, goats, pigs and
poultry on market-days. But what interested me even more was the annual
spring sale of slaves and its associated festival.

These events occur over a period of three days and the highlight of each
day are the slave auctions when many owners sell their slaves and purchase
replacements from the supply of new slaves brought to the island by
slave-dealers from the mainland.

The nights are given over to feasting and debauchery when the newly
purchased slaves are usually initiated into their onerous duties by their
new owners. I listened as my companions told of how the unhappy, naked
slaves are paraded shackled and whip-driven through the town's streets
prior to being placed on display at the slave-market. Here they are
subjected to the lecherous attentions of all the freemen citizens.

Listening to my companions talk about the "great slave auctions" - and they
all seem to have attended at least one - only whetted my appetite to
witness one for myself. I vowed one day to visit Doraenium and to take part
in the festivities that accompany these yearly festivals.

And that day has arrived! Today, I take my leave of my disapproving father
and set out on foot for the coast some two days walk from my village.

I am travelling light with just the clothes I wear, a few copper coins in
my pouch and a meagre ration of food packed for me by my anxious mother and
sister. My brother, two years my junior is to take my place in the forge
during my absence. I reason that I will be gone for no more than two weeks.

My plans are simple; I will walk to the coast and hopefully convince a
captain of one of the galleys trading with Doraenium to let me work my
passage out to the island.

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

Nothing has prepared my simple peasant's mind for the hustle and bustle of
this busy sea- port. All around me are scenes of feverish activity as
cargoes are unloaded from newly arrived trading galleys. My ears are
unaccustomed to the cacophony of sound that raucously fills the air and I
find the unintelligible babble of many languages bewildering. And for the
first time, I come face to face with real slavery.  In truth, I am more
accustomed to the benign slavery of the farms surrounding my home village
where slaves are treated firmly but fairly and seen as members of the
family.

The wharves team with gangs of slaves, who unchained from the oars of their
masters' galleys, toil relentlessly under the cruel whips of their
overseers. These poor wretches toil semi-naked - their modesty preserved
under filthy rags tied around their emaciated waists.  Their sun-blackened,
whippet-thin bodies are dreadfully whip-scarred and are evidence of their
suffering as they toil at the oar. Their heads are closely cropped and
their faces covered by thick stubble that adds to the grimness of their
appearances.

So uniform are they in appearance that it is impossible to determine their
age with accuracy. Their slavery has made them old before their
time. However, it is possible to get an idea of their length of service at
the oar by the colour of their torsos and the number of whip scars on their
shoulders and back; obviously the longer they have served at the oar the
darker the relentless sun has coloured their hides and the greater the
number of stripes they have garnered. They groan under the heavy yoke of
their slavery.

The slaves are remorselessly driven to unrealistic feats of strength under
the cruel whips of their impatient overseers. They struggle under the
impossibly heavy loads of large clay amphorae containing grain, olive oil
or wine and weighty baskets of produce or thick bundles of animal hides.

Somewhere, a teenaged slave stumbles and spills a basket of plump, black
figs over the wharf's surface. Immediately three overseers descend upon him
and assail him with their whips. Despite his anguished cries and futile
begging for mercy, he is lashed without respite until every last fig has
been gathered up and placed back in the basket. As he does so an angry
overseer berates him.

"You careless dog! Pick up every last fig and be quick about it. And take
care not to bruise them or I'll ram every damaged fig up you useless
ass. NOW MOVE!"

Only when the slave has gathered up the last fig and hoisted the basket
high on to his shoulder, does his torment cease.

My simple village life hasn't prepared me for these scenes of man's
inhumanity to his fellow man and I am distressed by the sorry plight of the
slaves. It's true that the whip is used by my overlord and I have been
witness to many public floggings in the village square. But these had been
given as legitimate punishment to miscreants who'd broken the laws or who
had offended against public morality. At home, neither the whip - nor any
other form of torture - had ever been used without justifiable reason and
to see it used so enthusiastically on the long suffering slaves upsets me.

I turn my back on the wharves and look for a waterfront tavern used by
off-duty seaman. It makes sense that this is where I can enquire about
finding a berth out to Doraenium. And besides, I am hungry.

The tavern I eventually chose is close to the waterfront. Its shabby
interior is small and ill-lit by two small windows that front onto
wharves. Even this early in the day, it is crowded with rough, noisy seamen
who seem determined to drink as much ale and wine as is humanly possible
before they put to sea once more.

As I enter, the room falls silent and I'm acutely aware that all eyes are
turned in my direction. I'm embarrassed by their sudden silence - and their
attention - and I'm aware that I am blushing profusely.

"Well lad, what can I do for you?" The tavern-keeper asks not unkindly.

"Please sir, I'd like a tankard of ale and some bread and goatmilk cheese."

"Well young sir, sit y'self down over there," he indicates a table in a far
corner, "and I'll fetch them to yer!"

Shyly, I move to the table - there are three seamen already sitting there -
but they shuffle along the bench and make room for me as I take my place
alongside of them.

"Well, young feller me lad, where are you from what brings yer here?" An
older sailor asks.

"Sir, my village is two days walk from here and I have come here to find a
way to get to the island of Doraenium."

"And why would a simple, country boy like you be lookin' to go to
Doraenium, I wonder?"

"Sir, I have heard of the annual festival and I want to see it for myself."

"You mean the slave auctions?" A younger sailor asks. "And why would yer be
wantin' to witness slaves bein' sold orf, I wonder?"

I'm not sure how to answer. I can't just say that my interest is prurient
or that it borders on the homo-erotic. More than that, I am excited at
exploring the world beyond the only one I'd ever known and visiting the
island gives purpose to my sense of adventure. Somehow I manage to stutter
out a reason.

"There are few farm slaves in my village and until today I've not seen a
real slave.  But two years ago, I was told about the slave auctions on
Doraenium and ever since I've wanted to visit there and see them for
myself."

"And tell me lad, how do yer plan to travel to Doraenium?" The older sailor
asks. "Do yer have the money to pay yer passage on one of the galleys
travellin' over to the island?"

"That all depends on how much it costs, sir! I don't have much money - just
a few coins - and I was hoping that I could work my passage on a ship. Do
you know of any ships looking for temporary workers?"

"Laddie, it could be that I might be able to help 'ee. Would ye be willin'
to work yer passage as a crew member?"

"It all depends on what I'd have to do, sir! You see, I'm a blacksmith and
not a sailor."

"Why, laddie! There's nothing to it. You'd be helping with the galley
slaves and the cargo of slaves we be takin' over to the auction. You'd not
need any special skills other than feeding and watering the slaves. Do ye
think ye could do that?"

"If that's all that's required sir, I think I could do that."

"That's the spirit lad! And it's just a short trip of two days over to
Doraenium. It's not as though it's a long voyage. And we be leavin' on this
evening's tide."

It would appear that the gods are favouring me. I have found a way to get
to Doraenium and it won't cost me one copper coin. Indeed, Fortuna smiles
on me; I have met up with these friendly seamen who are taking me with them
to meet the captain of their galley.

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

Part 2:

I can scarcely believe my luck. By a stroke of good fortune, I have fallen
in with a group of friendly seamen who are taking me to the captain of
their galley in the hope that he'll give me a berth to the Island of
Doraenium. I'd come to the port with this idea in mind but I didn't know it
would be so easy to make friends with a group of sailors and to sign on as
a crew member of their vessel.

I walk with them towards the wharf where their galley is berthed. Of
course, all this is very new to me. As a country lad, I'd never been
further than five miles from my parents' home and so my senses aren't able
to absorb all that is happening around me.

I suppose the thing I notice the most is the large number of semi-naked
slaves toiling under the cruel whips of their brutal overseers as they
struggle to load and unload the ships moored to the stout, stone wharves.
These wretched men - and really they are men no longer - have been
relegated to the lowly level of beasts-of-burden, They sweat and strain
under the heavy crates, kegs and baskets that twist and contort their
bodies into obscene shapes and the only sounds they make - apart from the
rattling of the chains fastened around their ankles and wrists - is the
loud rasping of their oxygen starved lungs and their agonized cries as the
sinuous whips coil snakelike around their semi-naked torsos.

I'd not had much exposure to the few slaves in my rural community where
they are the exception rather than the norm. The handful of slaves I'd come
across were mainly farm labourers and they were treated benignly by their
owners.  But what I now witness shocks my senses and arouses pity within me
for the plight of these unfortunate wretches. The filthy scraps of tattered
rags they wear tied around their emaciated waists are a small gesture of
decency but I suspect this concern is for the onlooker's outraged
sensibilities rather than the slave's dignity and self-respect.

And as we approach the galley - whereby I hope to travel to Doraenium - I
am overwhelmed by its foul stench. It is the stench of slavery; of the
unwashed, sweat-sodden bodies of the galley slaves and their bodily
wastes. The sickly sweet smell of excrement, urine and vomit fouls the very
air that I breathe. The vileness of it catches in my throat and cause me to
dry retch. One of the seamen sees my distress and comments.

"You mightn't think so now but if you sign on as a member of the crew
you'll soon get used to the slaves' stink. It grows on you until you don't
notice it no more!"

I doubt that very much but it would seem if I am to travel to Doraenium
then I must endure the foulness of the galley-slaves. I comfort myself with
the thought that my trip is a brief one of two days. It seems a small price
to pay for a free trip to the Island of Doraenium.

"There she be, lad! There's the "Lucky Wanderer."

The old seaman points to a sixty oared galley moored at the end of the
wharf. It truly is a thing of obscene beauty with its sleek, black hull and
colourful superstructure painted in hues of red, green, blue and
gold. Written at the bow and stern in large, gilt lettering is the galley's
name - "Lucky Wanderer".  Given the suffering of the naked slaves chained
three to an oar, the name strikes me as most incongruous. I doubt if any of
the one hundred and eighty oar-slaves would consider themselves lucky.

My new companions lead me up a gangplank and along a walkway that bisects
the waist of the galley towards a canopied, raised poop-deck overlooking
the rowing benches. For the first time I catch a glimpse of the miserable
wretches whose overtaxed muscles power the galley. Like the slaves I saw on
shore, their hair has been cropped close to their scalps and their beards
are trimmed in a vain attempt to deny sanctuary to the body lice and other
parasites that feast off their sweat encrusted bodies. Most of the slaves
are slumped over their oars in an attitude of resignation and they are
obviously resting before the tambour alerts them that their rest period is
at an end and before the whips of the overseers spur them into action. I
recall, back in the tavern, a seaman mentioned the galley is to set sail
that evening.

I walk between the serried ranks of sun-blackened bodies and I see the bare
backs laid open by the savage whips of the slave drivers. Some of the
cicatrices are obviously old scar tissue but superimposed over these are
fresher, bleeding ones. My arrival seems to stir some slaves out of their
stupor and they watch as I follow behind the seamen. I see written into
their lined, stubbled faces their utter hopelessness and the bleakness of
their situations; their eyes - dulled by the pain of their suffering -
reflect the bitter resignation of their appalling fates.

I climb the steep steps up onto poop-deck where I am introduced to the
galley captain by one of my newfound friends. As the old seaman tells the
captain about my wish to visit Doraenium, his eyes rake over me and I find
myself looking away uncomfortably. He listens intently to what the seaman
tells him and occasionally nods his head in silent agreement.  Finally, he
speaks.

"Why do you want to visit Doraenium, boy?"

I bristle at his use of "boy" to address me but he holds the upper hand and
so I bite my tongue. I'm unimpressed by the captain - he strikes me as a
shifty character - but I console myself with the knowledge two days from
now I will walk away from the "Lucky Wanderer" and most probably our paths
will never cross again. So I answer him with due civility and call him
"sir".

"Sir, I have heard talk about the annual festival held each spring on the
island and I wanted to see it for myself. It will all be very new to me."

Quite deliberately, I don't mention that I want to witness the auction of
the slaves which is the highlight of the festival. Instead, I mention the
music, the plays, the feasting and dancing and games that are held in
conjunction with the three days of auction.

"Well lad, you've picked a good year to visit Doraenium.  I believe there
are a record number of slaves on offer this year and the entertainment
associated with the auctions is bigger and better than ever.  But tell me,
have you ever been to a slave auction?"

"No sir!" I answer truthfully. "There are very few slaves in my village and
none are ever sold locally."

"Well then you are in for quite a spectacle watching as the naked slaves
are inspected before mounting the auction-block and being knocked down to
the highest bidder. It's all very exciting and there's a real buzz around
the sale-ring. In fact, I have a cargo of nearly two hundred prime, young,
male slaves destined for the sale stowed below decks."

The knowledge that the galley is carrying such a large cargo of slaves
comes as a shock.  Previously, the seamen had mentioned they were ferrying
slaves over to the sale but I'd not considered there'd be so many. But that
does account for the galley's underlying foulness.  With these slaves added
to the oar slaves there are nearly four hundred slaves on board. No wonder
it stinks to high heaven.  One can only imagine at the filth in which the
hapless slaves are forced to travel. And for the first time I hear the
incessant murmur of voices echoing up from the ship's bowels like the
buzzing of so many angry wasps.

"Where did all the slaves come from?" I ask in amazement.

"I don't know and more to the point I don't care?" The Captain's answer is
both blunt and callous and for the first time I glimpse his inherent
cruelty. "When a slave is brought to me I never ask his owner how he became
a slave. I suppose some slaves are war captives, others are criminals or
are simply grabbed off the dark streets and alleyways of some town or city
and spirited away into slavery. Anyway, it doesn't matter - once he is
naked and in chains he's a slave in my eyes and there's no going back for
him. Next stop is the auction-block. My only interest is in the price he
fetches for me. This year should be a windfall for me. I understand there's
to be a reserve price of eighty silver discs per head. "

I do the sums quickly in my head and come up with a figure of sixteen
thousand silver discs for the two hundred slaves. I don't know the amount
of the galley-master's initial outlay for his cargo but I suspect it is
considerably less than profit he'll make on the unfortunate wretches.

Slavery isn't something that I'd ever seriously considered. To me, it had
always been an abstract thing - some men just seemed to be slaves - and
those too few with whom I'd had contact were benignly treated and seemed
happy with their lot. True, they are owned property and subject to the
rules their farmer masters impose upon them and they could be punished at
their owner's whim. However, I have never witnessed a slave being punished!

On the other hand, I have been made to gather in the village square and
watch as our local overlord had a free man whipped for some minor
infraction of the law on many occasions.  Free men are as subject as any
slave to the rules and punishments of their "betters".

Indeed, I'd left my home without the permission of my feudal overlord and I
know there is the very real possibility on my return home in a few days'
time that I could be stripped to the waist, tied to a whipping post and
flogged before the assembled villagers for "absenting myself without
leave".

As a peasant, is there all that much difference between me and a chattel
slave?

"Tell me lad," The captain asks, "where are you from? Where is your
village?"

"It's a two day walk inland from here, sir! And it's more of a hamlet than
a village with just a few families who serve the local lord and his tenant
farmers."

"What work do you do to serve the lord and his farmers?"

"I work with my father who is the blacksmith."

"How long have you worked at the forge?"

"I can't remember a time when I didn't work with my father. Even as a small
boy I would be beside him in the forge pumping the bellows and stoking the
embers for him. Later on, I worked at shoeing the horses, making
ploughshares and other farming implements."

"Ahh and it shows! What a strong, sturdy young man you are. Obviously you
spring from good country stock. How old are you, lad?"

"I'm seventeen sir!"

"And you're all alone in the world seeking adventure? You have no
travelling companions or relatives living here in the city?"

"No sir. I'm on my own. I just want to see the festival at Doraenium and
then return home to my village in a few days' time."

"And you shall see Doraenium. I can promise you that, lad. My crew members
tell me you want to work your passage over to Doraenium. Is that correct?"

"If that's at all possible, yes please sir!  I promise you I will work
hard."

"To tell you the truth I have a full crew at the moment and I'm not looking
for any extra deckhands. But I like the 'cut of your gib' lad and I want to
help you if I can. But the only job I can offer you is as a junior overseer
of my oars slaves. I need someone to feed and water them and to help the
senior slavedrivers put the whip to their lazy backs to keep the oars
moving. It's not a job for the squeamish however. Do you feel you can do
that? If you do, then the job is yours for the taking."

The question disturbs me. I'd thought that I would work as a member of the
crew swabbing decks and keeping things shipshape and in their proper
place. Or helping the overseers with the victualling of the slaves. It had
never occurred to me that I would be offered a place as a junior whip
master over the galley slaves. After all, I know nothing about the control
and discipline of slaves and I'd never used a whip on anything other than a
stubborn mule or an ox. This had never unduly worried me but to whip a man
is another matter altogether. Am I capable of such a cruel act?

I don't know if I am and I express my doubts to the captain.

"I'm sorry sir! But I have to be honest with you. I have never whipped
anything other than an animal. I have never whipped a man."

"Lad! There's nothing to it. Just think of the slave as another animal like
any other farm beast-of-burden and you'll be right. Because that's what a
slave is - a work animal and he has to be driven to get the best out of
him. He ceased to be a man the moment he was enslaved. Don't ever be afraid
to use your whip on a lazy slave any more than you would on a truculent
plough-ox. And you look as though you could wield a whip to good
effect. You're young, strong and well-muscled. I don't doubt you have a
good whipping arm. What do you say, lad? Yes or no? The jobs yours if you
want it."

I do have some reservations; but my need to travel to Doraenium overcomes
my lingering scruples. I rationalize my decision by telling myself that it
will only be for two days and that the galley-slaves will still be whipped
whether or not it is by me. Anyway, couldn't I hold back on the whip and
just go through the motions of using it? Yes, that's what I'll do! I'll go
through the charade of using a whip.

"Thank you sir, I accept!"

"Good for you! Well then, let's get you kitted out for your new role. Let's
get you out of your farm tunic and leggings and into an overseer's
uniform. Strip lad, while I send for my boatswain to fetch some pantaloons
for you. You'll notice the overseers work shirtless; this is so their whip
arms are unimpeded by clothing. It allows them more freedom of movement.
By the way, what is your name?"

"My name is Linus, sir! Do I really have to strip naked in front of you?"

"We're all men of the world here, Linus. And we are all used to seeing a
man naked. Why, look below you down onto the rowing-benches and you'll see
lots of naked bodies. We don't think twice about nudity on board our
galley, Linus. You're not shy about showing us your body are you? You have
nothing to hide, do you?"

Of course I have nothing to hide and I bristle inwardly at the mere
suggestion that I might.  In fact, I'm proud of my body which has been
honed to hard perfection at my father's forge.  Indeed there'd not be too
many of my age who has attained my physical development.  Usually, I work
stripped to the waist in the forge and I am aware that many of the village
maidens wander past the forge just to glimpse my body. Like Narcissus, I
like the idea that they find me worth a second glance and often I'll put on
a muscular show just for them by hammering away at some hard, metal object
on the anvil.

Oh, with all the vanity of a strutting peacock I primp and pose my body; I
puff out my chest and suck in my stomach so that it shows the hard ridges
of my belly muscles. As the maidens giggle and chat behind hands held to
their mouths I titillate them by flexing my biceps and stretching my thigh
and leg muscles so that they are thrown into sharp relief. I know that I
present a pleasing sight as my sweat soaked, semi-naked torso glistens
orange-red in the glow of the forge's coals. And unusually for my dark
haired people, my own is the colour of sun-ripened corn and I have blue
eyes. My chest has a light dusting of blond hair which is repeated on my
limbs and a treasure trail of slightly darker hair begins at my sternum and
trails down the centre line of my abdominals before disappearing
suggestively beneath the waistband of the loin cloth I wear in the forge
for comfort.

And I am aware that several of the young men of the village find me
attractive also. They'll drop in for a chat as I work and always I am aware
that I am under their close scrutiny. In some ways this masculine interest
arouses and excites me more than that of the females.  There is something
about the male that I find powerfully erotic. Always, I supress these
thoughts; man love is frowned upon in our village and can lead to dire
consequences for its practitioners.

Fortune has dealt generously with me and given me the most prodigious
genitalia. My cock is long and thick and my two large testicles swing
heavily in my low hanging ball sac. I am justifiably proud of my cock and
balls and I most certainly don't have any reason to be ashamed of my body.

Therefore the galley captain's questions irk me!

I begin to disrobe by removing my upper garment. As I raise my arms and
pull my peasant's blouse over my head, my chest and armpits are exposed to
the view of the captain and his crew. Momentarily, my view is obscured by
my shirt and I don't see the smirks on their faces or hear the sharp intake
of their breath.  I do however see the lascivious licking of the lips and
the craning forward of their heads to watch me as I remove my boots,
leggings and loose fitting trousers.  Soon, all that separates me from
total nudity is the brief cincture that I wear as an undergarment. Despite
this garment affording me some modesty, nevertheless I feel very vulnerable
under such close scrutiny and I pause in my undressing. But the captain
urges me to continue undressing.

"Carry on, Linus! Don't be shy. You're among friends and you don't have
anything to fear from us."

Despite his re-assurances, I still view the captain with some suspicion. I
don't know what it is about the man but my sixth sense tells me he's not to
be trusted. But if I wish to have passage to Doraenium I have no other
choice but to acquiesce to his request and to obey his orders. Hopefully,
these won't be too onerous?

I unfasten the cincture and allow it to fall to the deck between my feet. I
hear the murmurs of approval as the captain and his fellow crew-members
survey my total nakedness.  Appalled at their obvious interest in me -
which I now recognize is sexually motivated - I instinctively cover my
genitals with my cupped hands and try to afford myself a small measure of
dignity.

Desperately, I look around for the boatswain to bring me my overseer's
pantaloons and I watch as he laboriously climbs the steep steps from the
rowing pit up to the poop deck burdened by a heavy, hessian sack carried on
his stooped back. This bag puzzles me; where are the pantaloons that the
captain had sent for?

The overseer is fortyish - as far as I can tell - and dressed in loose
fitting pantaloons. He is naked from the waist up except for a sleeveless,
open fronted, leather vest that reveals a massive chest and protruding
belly covered in thick, black hair. This hirsuteness is in sharp contrast
to the shining, bald dome of his head. Fastened to a belt around his waist
is a sinister, black whip. Despite it being sinuously coiled, I can tell it
is very long and I will subsequently discover that its length allows him to
put it simultaneously to the backs of the three slaves manning an oar thus
making it a most useful instrument of coercion.  He looks at me most
intently through narrow slitted eyes as he noisily drops the hessian bag
from his shoulders; I wonder at the loud, metallic clunk as it hits the
deck's timbers.

"Ah Linus me lad, here's your new uniform!" The captain exclaims and then
turning to the three seamen who'd befriended me in the tavern, he tells
them. "Perhaps you can help Linus don his uniform?"

The tone of his voice suggests it's an order rather than a request and
suddenly I am fearful.  Something tells me that all is not as it should be
and I decide to take my leave of the captain and his foul galley.

"On second thoughts, I've decided not to go over to Doraenium." I blurt
out.  "I should return home as my parents will be worrying about me."

As I bend to pick up my clothes, I don't see the three seaman move to
encircle me. It's not until I straighten up that I become aware of their
close proximity to me. This startles me and as I prepare to dress and
leave, the captain tells me.

"You won't be leaving us laddie! You said you wanted a berth to Doraenium
and you'll be coming with us irrespective of what you want."

I see the nod of the captain's head and suddenly the three seaman pounce on
me. Two pinion me by my arms and the third grabs hold of my body in a vain
attempt to stop me from struggling. Unreasoning fear now drives me and I
begin to struggle with new found reserves of strength I never knew I
possessed. Oh how I struggle; I twist and contort my naked body in my
efforts to break free of the firm grasp of the three robust seamen. A
sudden punch to the stomach temporarily winds me and I am rendered
helpless. As I double over I receive a cuff to the head and a seaman orders
me to.

"Stop struggling you little fucker! You ain't goin' nowhere."

I realize I'm no match for the combined strength of the three seamen and
that my battle is an uneven one which will only cause me more grief. I
cease my useless struggling and stand quivering and waiting to see what
happens next.

The boatswain loudly empties his sack and as its contents spill out noisily
on to the deck, I see a set of heavy leg irons, wrist shackles and a coarse
iron collar. These are the accoutrements of slavery and instinctively I
know they are meant for me.

Quaking with fear I ask the captain what is happening.

"Sir, what's going on? Why are those chains there?"

"They're for you laddie! You'll be wearing them over to Doraenium. You said
you wanted to see the slave auction. Well you'll not only see it; you'll
actively take part in it. I've just 'recruited' you as another of my slave
cargo."

"You can't do that! I'm a free man. You can't enslave me."

"Believe me I can. Who's to stop me? You're on board my galley and we sail
in a few hours.  And more to the point, no one knows you are here. You said
earlier you are two day walk from your home and you don't have relatives or
friends here in the city. No one will miss you until it's too late. By the
time your parents come looking for you you'll be a nameless, owned slave on
Doraenium."

Unfortunately for me the captain's words ring true.  I know no one in the
city and I won't be missed.  By the time my grieving father comes looking
for me I will be long gone and no one will be any the wiser. My father's
enquires will be to no avail and he won't learn that I am a slave on
Doraenium.  Eventually, he'll be forced to abandon his search for me and
return to our village to provide for his family. Perhaps they'll grieve for
my unknown fate but will that grief lessen over the years until I become
just a memory to them. Tears fill my eyes; and I curse myself for my
naivety in trusting the three seamen who'd appeared to offer me their
friendship. It is a sign of my unworldliness that I'd allowed myself to be
seduced so easily. It would appear I am to pay a high price for my
stupidity.

Nevertheless, I plead through my tears with the captain to set me free.
But now I see the cruelty of the man as he orders the boatswain to fit the
chains to my wrists and ankles.

Once more I struggle uselessly and lash out with my legs in all
directions. I fight with superhuman strength and several times I'm vaguely
aware that my foot has made contact with one of my assailants.  I hear
their obscene curses and I feel their punches raining down on me. Even so,
I am proving a handful for them and they wrestle with me until my body is
prone to the deck. I feel the rough timbers rasping against my naked flesh
but my fear makes me impervious to any pain.

Rough hands seize hold of my feet while someone sits on my chest
immobilizing me. I am helpless as I feel the cold iron shackles close
around my ankles. Next, my arms are seized and stretched out along the deck
above my head and as the boatswain fastens the iron chain around my wrists,
I give vent to all my pent-up emotions. From somewhere deep within the very
depths of my being I bellow out a single cry of raw, primal fear.

"NOOOO!!!!"

It contains all my anger, fear, rage and frustration. But most of all it
reflects the hopelessness of my situation.

With my wrists and ankles shackled the battle is almost over. All that
remains is for the heavy iron collar to be locked around my neck. I feel
the roughness of the coarsely cast iron rubbing against my throat as its
two, hinged halves meet and are fastened with a metal rivet.  Exhausted and
defeated, I now lie quivering at the feet of my captors. I don't know why
but the deck seems to offer me a sense of security as I lie panting to
regain my breath on its hard, unyielding surface. I am reluctant to move
and I'm surrounded by five pairs of legs while above me, I hear the captain
discussing me with my three, erstwhile, new friends.

"You've done well, boys! He's a fine specimen and will fetch a nice price
at auction. With those handsome features and his nicely honed body, he'll
be eagerly sought after by the buyers. My bet is that he's destined for
some lucky ass-botherer's bed."

"And cap'ain, we'll get our usual spotter's fee?" The oldest of the seamen
asks.

"Of course, you'll get ten per cent of his selling price which should keep
you in grog swilling money for a while."

As they talk, I scrunch myself into the foetal position. Idiotically, I
have the idea that if I do this I will make myself less conspicuous. It's
strange how the human brain works when it is under great stress. I roll my
naked body into a tight ball and as I do so I hear the unaccustomed sounds
of the chains rattling on my feet and wrists. I'm shocked by this sudden,
unexpected turn of events. My mind struggles to grasp that I am now a
naked, shackled slave destined for the auction block. I think of my parents
and my siblings and the knowledge that they are lost to me forever
overwhelms me to such an extent that I give way to my fraught emotions and
I hear myself crying and sobbing.

Once more, all to no avail, I begin to plead for my release. But the galley
captain is firm in his resolve. As he looks down on me, I see the contempt
he feels for me reflected in his eyes; he doesn't see me as a fellow human;
I am now a slave and he only sees my worth in terms of the money he'll
receive when I am sold.

His next words reflect his hard-heartedness towards my plight.

"GET UP ONTO YOUR FEET!"

Dazed, his words are slow to register and I fail to obey his
order. Viciously, he lashes out at me with his foot and kicks my ass.

"I said get up!"

Still I hesitate and I don't see him take a whip from the boatswain and aim
it at my unprotected body. I hear the initial, staccato crack of the whip
and I hear its whine followed by the loud "thwack" of leather striking bare
flesh - my flesh. As the lash cuts across my shoulders I experience
unimaginable pain. I hear my answering, hoarse scream of outrage and
pain. Once more, I hear the sibilant hiss of the whip before it cuts across
my lower back and ass.

"I ordered you to your feet! GET UP! A slave obeys any command given to him
immediately."

To emphasize the point, he whips me one more time. Now fearful of the
captain's anger and his whip, I hastily scramble to my feet and stand
trembling with fear before him and his crew members.

"That's better, boy! As a new slave you'll do well to remember to respond
to an order without hesitation. First thing you need to realize is that
your master always holds the whip hand. Now stand up straight and present
yourself for my inspection. Shoulders back, chest out, belly sucked in,
legs apart and put your hands behind your head. Oh and clench your
ass-checks together and thrust your cock and balls forward. That the stance
you must now adopt when in the presence of free men. And you don't wait
until you are told to do it. You do it as a matter of course. But you'll
soon learn, I'm sure of that! The lash is a good teacher of slave
etiquette."

The tone of his voice has me quaking to such an extent that my new chains
are rattling.  Without a second thought, I adopt the stance he demands and
I'm suddenly aware of my naked vulnerability. My nude body is now open to
scrutiny and I am about to be introduced to one of the most of the
demeaning atrocities that all slaves are routinely subjected to - a close
body inspection and the obscene fingering of my ass and genitals. But as
yet, I'm not aware of this and so I stand and fearfully wonder what is to
happen next.

Obviously, I have pleased the captain and he compliments me.

"Good boy! You responded to my command and I'm pleased with how you are
presenting yourself." Then turning to the boatswain he asks. "What's your
first impression of the slave?"

"He's a fine specimen! Strong of body and sound of wind and limb I should
think. Personally, I think he'd make a good oar-slave. The years of working
in in his father's forge has prepared him for the hard, physical labour of
the galley-slave. I can imagine his stressed body tugging at an oar with
his muscles and sinews stretched to their utmost limits. He's also very
young and in the prime of his youth. I estimate there's about fifteen to
twenty years of service at the oars in him."

"Aye, no doubt you're right about that!" The captain replies. "But he's a
handsome lad with a most pleasing face and body who would delight the most
discriminating buyer. He could just as easily serve as a body slave or a
bed-buck. He'd make an excellent 'belly-warmer' on a cold winter's night."

"That's true too, captain. It seems we see the slave through different
eyes. I see him as a heavy duty oars-slave and you see him as a rich man's
plaything - a pleasure slave. I'd consider that a waste of a strong, young
slave."

Their discussion is about me but it doesn't include me. I stand powerless
as the captain and his boatswain discuss the merits of my body and the best
uses for it. Neither fate appeals to me but quickly I decide I'd rather be
a rich master's 'toy' than one of the hapless creatures chained to the oars
below the poop-deck. The stench of the galley-slaves' foulness wafts up and
assails my senses and I look down on the rows of whip-scarred, naked backs
and I am appalled that I could share their fate.

But before deciding my fate, the captain decides to inspect me more
closely. He begins by placing his hands on my shoulders and squeezing the
hard, rounded balls of my biceps to test their strength. Then he pummels my
chest for its soundness and orders me to alternatively inhale and exhale
and to hold my breath. He places an ear on my chest and listens to my
wildly beating heart. He grunts his approval and maliciously pinches and
twists my nipples to test my re-action. Then his hands slide down over my
belly before pausing to insert a fingertip into the deep indent of my
navel. Satisfied that it's not herniated, he continues down past my cock
and balls but bypasses them.

His hands are well-practised in gauging the strengths and weaknesses of a
slave and they slide down the outside of my legs to my feet before he runs
them back up the inside of them to my groin stopping only to squeeze my
calves and thigh muscles .

Despite my trauma, I find myself responding involuntarily to the feel of
his hands on my body.  There is something strangely erotic about the touch
of this man's hands dispassionately exploring my nakedness. I'm aware of
the withdrawal of my balls back into my ever-tightening scrotum and the
inevitable pumping of red-hot blood into my thickening cock. The captain
reaches between my legs and rolls each of my balls between his fingers
before he wipes a small, thread of precum from my piss-slit.  Then, he
orders me to turn with my back facing him.

Again, he begins at my shoulders; he slides his hands down over the concave
of my back, pausing to pound the different muscle-groups before moving down
to my ass. He takes a tightly clenched ass-cheek in either each hand and
squeezes hard.

Obviously he is pleased with me and comments favourably to his boatswain.

"You're right! He does have the body of a galley slave. He possesses broad
shoulders, a powerful, muscular back and strong arms and legs with a long
reach suited to the oars. His ass is a rower's ass there's no doubting
that. And he is sound in the chest with good lung capacity and a strongly
beating heart.  I'll just check his ass and his teeth to make sure they're
sound."

The captain slaps my ass and orders me to bend at the waist. I shuffle into
position and he instructs me to.

"SPREAD THEM WIDE!"

I'm at a loss to know what he means and my ass is soundly slapped several
times because of my ignorance.

"Reach behind and take an ass-cheek in each hand and pull them apart."

I do as I'm told but it still doesn't satisfy the captain. He reaches out
and cuffs my head and he instructs me to.

"Pull them apart! Further yet! Further! That's it now hold still!"

I feel a finger lightly tracing a line from the base of my spine down
through the crevasse of my ass to my anus. The finger is used to both relax
and excite me before it is crudely thrust through my tight sphincter into
the inner recesses of my body. At first, the unfamiliar feel of this
intrusion is both distasteful and uncomfortable. But the captain persists
and I'm aware of the finger's probing search for my prostate. As it make
contact with my pleasure nub, I am enveloped in a most pleasurable
sensation and the involuntary working of my ass muscles seek to draw the
intruder further into me. The captain responds by 'finger fucking" me for
several minutes. I am oblivious to everything other than the intense
pleasure that washes over me. It is unlike anything I have ever
experienced. Is this one of the duties of a pleasure slave?

I feel the rapid engorging of my cock until it is as erect as I can ever
remember it being.  Hungrily, I want to devour the finger and eagerly, I
begin to thrust back against it seeking even more pleasure. This pleases
the captain and he laughingly comments to the watching crew members.

"The slave's really riding my finger. Imagine if it was a cock up his ass
instead of a finger.  He'll give his new master a great fuck."

"Is that to be his future then?" The boatswain asks disdainfully.  "If so
that's a pity! It'll be the waste of a good slave better suited to the
rowing-bench than a rutting-bed."

"I guess it's a matter of getting the best value from him. On the
auction-block, he'd certainly attract a lot of interest as a pleasure slave
and I would expect to get a tidy return on him.  But as you say, there's
fifteen good, productive years in him as an oar-slave. It's a hard decision
and one I'll need to think about before we reach Doraenium."

"And in the meantime what is to be done with him? Is he to be put down in
the bilges with the other slaves?"

"I suppose so! Do you have another suggestion?"

"Yes I do, captain. Let's put him to an oar for the two day trip over to
the island. That way we can see if he's best suited to the oars or the
pleasure couch. And if you do decide to sell him at auction the exercise at
the oar will have conditioned him nicely."

As the two talk together, I'm still bent double with my ass-cheeks spread
widely and the captain's finger buried deep within my rectum. They seem to
be oblivious to me. I am there but as an object to be talked about.  I am
appalled at the prospect of being chained to an oar and made to row under
the overseer's whip. Still this is a decision that will be made on my
behalf and I cannot influence it in anyway.

"That's an excellent idea! And I like the irony of it too." The captain
laughs.  "The slave did come on board and asked to be allowed to work his
passage over to Doraenium. This way, he'll certainly work out his berth and
it will give me time to decide his future. He's yours for the next two days
but hold back on the whip; I don't want his back opened up. And I don't
want him disfigured for the auction-block should I decide to sell him."

"Captain, being new to the oar, he will need 'encouraging'. But I will
inform the whip- masters to apply the lash lightly. But I doubt that a
superficial stripe or two will deter the buyers. To the contrary - from
what I remember - the buyers like to see a slave who has been recently
disciplined."

"Certainly that's true," the captain replies, "but they would see open,
bleeding cuts as a sign of heavy punishment and that could hint that the
slave is troublesome."

"I'll do as you say captain! I will make sure the whip doesn't disfigure
him in anyway."

"Very good, then he's yours for the duration of the voyage over to
Doraenium. But first, I'll just check out his mouth and teeth and see if
they are as healthy as his ass. His ass is sound and as tight as a drum. It
has much to offer to the discerning buyer."

And so with those words from the galley captain my fate is sealed!

I am now destined to be a slave for the remainder of my life. My immediate
prospects are those of a galley slave and for the next two days I will sit
shackled to a rowing-bench alongside the other miserable wretches who ply
the oars of the "Lucky Wanderer".

Beyond that - who knows my fate! That is in the hands of the captain. He
might decide that I best serve his interests as a galley-slave. Or it might
be that his avarice will win the day and I will mount the auction-block at
the special spring slave sale on Doraenium and become the pleasure-slave of
some lecherous master.

That choice is the galley captain's to make but ultimately my fate rests in
the hands of the fickle gods who decide a man's ultimate destiny!