Date: Fri, 15 Jul 2011 23:14:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Aftermath Chapter 16  Gay Male/Authoritarian

THE AFTERMATH
(Or What Follows Next)

Chapter 16 PRE-SALE INSPECTIONS

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
"To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"


Toby goes on Display

Conventional wisdom has it that there are two types of men who attend slave
auctions. Firstly, there is the genuine buyer who is looking to buy an
asset and then there are the voyeurs whose primary concern is to satisfy
their lusts by fingering the naked slaves on display.

Today, I am to be exposed to both.

                                 ..........................

I am one of a long line of 51 slaves displayed on the viewing podium and I'm
chained by my ankle to the position allocated to Lot 25; to my right are the two
blond cousins at Lot 26. I, of course, wear the number 25 written in large black
numerals on my left breast and my right flank and to avoid any confusion to the
buyers a large, yellow `Lot 25' is painted on the podium at my feet.

It is still early - just a few minutes after 9.00 AM - but already the first
buyers are moving in to examine all the slaves on offer at today's sale. Looking
along the line, I see some of my fellow slaves suffering under the inspections
of these early-bird buyers. I say suffering because it is impossible to
adequately convey to a person who isn't a slave, how we really feel at the
indignities visited upon us.

Forbidden to display any emotion, how does a slave show his humiliation? The
simple answer is that he doesn't. No matter what abuses he is subjected to, the
slave must always remain docile and accepting of what is being done to him. To
ensure that we do so, we are under the strict control of overseers armed with
vicious canes who constantly prowl along our line enforcing this passivity upon
us.

In my capacity as farm manager, I'd been to the slave market many times with my
master. As a slave, I was forbidden to attend an auction unless I was in the
company of my owner. For practical reasons my master, Andy Trevorrow, had often
taken me with him when he was buying or selling slaves; as his manager he'd
valued my opinion on another slave's capacity for hard labour.

In the past, I'd never considered how a slave felt about being sold; after all
he was only a working asset - a unit of labour - that my master was interested
in buying or selling. And, given my selfish disinterest in my fellow slaves, his
state of mind wasn't of any consequence to me or my master.

Today, it is different. I stand on the podium and I am now subject to the whims
and fancies of the viewing public.

I am familiar with the geography of the slave market. The area where I stand,
fronts onto a large square set aside by the city authorities for the selling of
livestock and other farm produce. This area is situated in the industrial
quarter of the city, far from any residential areas whose residents are
protected from the market's pollution. In constant use, the permanent smell of
farm animals hangs faintly over the area and I, accustomed to farm life, can
make out the individuals odours. My trained nostrils are able to distinguish the
smell of horses from that of cattle, that of sheep from goats and of course
there is also the pungent smell of pigs and poultry.

I wonder - do we slaves have our own distinctive odour that we add the potpourri
of the market? I suspect we do. After all, I've just spent three days
incarcerated in the slave pens and the foul stink of slavery still lingers in my
consciousness.

Behind me are the viewing pens from which we have just been liberated and
placed on the viewing platform. We'd spent some ninety minutes  locked in
them and were exposed to public scrutiny. Our time in these pens was a precursor
of what is to come.

All fifty-one of us carried into the pens a range of emotions - shock, fear,
outrage, anger, frustration, despair and hopelessness - but overriding these is
a deep sense of shame and humiliation. Here, naked and in chains we were
scrutinized, visually appraised and dispassionately discussed as the animals we
are. Stupidly, we thought that by constantly moving around the pens we would be
spared this. But as we noisily shuffled around, we could overhear the various
comments made about us "Lot 10 looks strong; he has good muscle tone ", or "Lot
31 looks as if he'd be a good breeding buck" and more ominously "look at the
ass on number 16; he'll be good in bed".

I know a slave is supposed to be inured to such things; but the reality of the
situation is that we aren't. Deep within us, there is still a small spark of our
former humanity that makes us suffer hurt. But as slaves we are forbidden to
show emotion and we must keep our true feelings well-hidden from our masters.

I watch as the various stall-holders quickly set-up shop for the day. These are
the subsidiary stalls that cater to the needs of both buyers and spectators. One
particular stall attracts my attention. Judging by the whips, brands and
restraints on display, it obviously caters to the needs of slave-owners.
Billboards advise buyers that it is possible to have "your new purchase enhanced
quickly and cheaply -skinning, branding, piercing and adornments are a
specialty". To emphasise this, there are two heavily decorated, young slaves
standing at the entrance to the stall. Even at this early hour, they are
attracting much attention.

Now I'm assailed by the delicious aroma of cooking foods; this is coming from
the fast-food/takeaway stalls set up to cater for the hungry buyers and
spectators. My mouth salivates and my stomach - denied food since yesterday -
rumbles. I can't imagine what these foods taste like, but my hunger fires my
imagination. How I would love to sample some of them.

For the nearly twenty years of my slavery, I have existed on a bland and
tasteless diet of slave fodder especially formulated to keep me fit, healthy
and disease-free and which is guaranteed not to upset my digestive system or to
rot my teeth.

Very rarely, my master did reward me with a piece of fruit - how I savoured those
occasions and the delicious tastes live on in my memory - but this went against
the practice of good slave-husbandry and the advice of the slave dieticians.
However, it wasn't something my master did very often and he saw no harm in it.
Mostly, he rewarded me after a memorable night spent in his bed or if he was
particularly pleased with some aspect of my good management of his affairs.
Needless to say, I was always extremely grateful to him for his kindness in
rewarding me.

To my left is an area that is enclosed by high brick walls; this is the area
reserved for the actual auction of the slaves. This area - closed to the general
public during an auction - is only accessible to those genuine buyers, who
register their intention to buy on the day of the sale and are given an entry
card to the auction; spectators are strictly excluded from this area by the
slave-dealers. These spectators must confine their activities to the display
area.

My master once told me that, originally, this area had been open to the general
public, but the dealers had become impatient with the frivolous and time wasting
requests from non-buyers who continually asked for the slave being sold to be
put through his paces. This means that only genuine buyers will have access to
us as we mount the auction block this afternoon. Given the volume of slaves to
be sold today, the auctioneers will be keen to keep proceedings moving along
briskly.

Around three sides of this courtyard there are ascending tiers of seats for the
buyers - these seats are protected from the elements by wide, overhanging
awnings. Along the fourth wall is the raised platform on which stands the actual
auction block. The wooden block, adjacent to the covered auctioneer's podium, is
unprotected; this exposure of the slave is deliberate - as he stands on the
block, his oiled body is highlighted by the sun. Steps lead down from the rear
of this platform to a race-like enclosure where the slaves are lined up in
numerical order, one behind the other, to await their turn on the block. It goes
without saying that the actual sale of the slaves is conducted with businesslike
efficiency and precision.

Slowly, the crowds are building up and my attention is drawn to a group of
rowdy, boisterous, teen-aged youths clustered around one unfortunate slave
standing in number one position. I'm too far away from them to know what
precisely is happening but judging by the raucous laughter of the crowd of
onlookers, they are having fun at his expense. As I watch, I'm suddenly
ordered to

"Pay attention , slave! FACE THE FRONT! NOW!" I recognise the stern voice of
Silas Hacker, the overseer of Redgrove Plantation.

Immediately, I assume the display position and respectfully lower my eyes to the
ground.

"This is the slave I was telling you about Ben. What do you think of him?"

The speaker is Theodore Russell, owner of Redgrove and the man who had examined
me two days ago. Then, he'd shown great interest in me as a possible breeder for
his stud, although there had also been the suggestion that I could serve as a
fancy slave in the Russell household. I knew that the overseer disapproved of
this second proposal - he would much rather that I labour in the fields with my
back bent under his whip. It has to be said none of these prospects overly
appeal to me, but I stand helpless. The choices aren't mine to make.

With my eyes downcast, I sense rather than see who is standing in front of me.
Submissively, I wait for him to take the initiative. That is his prerogative as
a free person - I, as a slave, must wait on him. Silently, he mounts the
platform and I feel his firm hands placed upon my chest. The thought flashes
through my mind that examining my oil-coated body will be messy, but I know
there are areas set aside where the buyers can wash-up after they have finished
their inspections.

As his hands confidently move over me, I know that I'm being evaluated
professionally and not sexually, unlike the overseer's inspection of me of two
days ago. Silas Hacker had left no doubt in my mind as what his interest in me
entailed; he'd even whispered in my ear that we would enjoy fucking me. I sense
this isn't what my current inspection is about. Still, as the hands continue
down over my stomach, I wonder - is there a difference?

On the one hand, the overseer's inspection had reduced me to an object of his lust,
whereas this current inspection is evaluating me much as one would judge a work
animal.  These hands seek out my strengths and weaknesses, my capacity for hard
work and what contribution I will make to the Russell family`s fortunes. Both reduce
me to the status of a beast.

A hand is placed under my chin and as my head is lifted, I look into the face of
the man who is examining me. I see a youthful, handsomely arrogant face, staring
intently into my own. I am in the presence of Theodore Russell's elder son,
twenty years old Ben. Momentarily, our eyes meet and then, submissively, I lower
mine. Slowly, he turns my face to the left and he studies my profile before
turning it to the right. Satisfied, he now orders me to "FLEX".

I obey as best I can, but my movements are restricted by the heavy chains I wear
around my wrists. Nevertheless, I manage to raise my arms level with my
shoulders and bend my forearms upwards so that the tight balls of my biceps are
prominently displayed. Breathing deeply, the rise and fall of my chest bring
into play my pectorals and highlights the definition of my abdominal muscles.

Embarrassingly, I feel the first stirrings of an impending erection.

"Joel, I want you to watch closely at what Ben is doing to the slave." I hear
Theodore Russell instructing his sixteen years old son, Joel. "After he's
finished, it'll be your turn. You're at an age now where you should know how to
handle and appraise a slave. So watch closely at what your brother is doing."
Then he asks impatiently, "Do you hear me, Joel?"

"Yes, Pa, I hear you. I'm watching. I'm watching. OK!" I hear the younger son's
petulant answer.

I stand motionless as Ben's hands slide down over my chest and belly, pausing
briefly to check my breathing and then continue down to my legs. I'm surprised
that he bypasses my genitals - ignoring my now rampant erection - and
concentrates instead on the front of my thighs and calves. Then, he commands me
to.

"TURN AROUND!"

I am over-awed by the imperious tone of his voice and his easy air of authority
is that of a confident, free, young man who is in complete control of the
situation. Should his father buy me, I know instinctively that I will submit to
his will. It is obvious this young man won't tolerate disobedience or slackness
in a slave and I hasten to obey his command.

I stand passively as he gauges the power of my shoulders and the strength of my
back. He doesn't hurry in his examination of me. After all, he has plenty of
time and I'm at his disposal for as long as he wants. I feel the knuckle of a
finger travel up and down my back testing the soundness of my spinal column -
any experienced owner knows a slave's back needs to be flexible as it bends to
its labours. Then, there is my involuntary shiver as his hands move over the
flaring curves of my buttocks. I tense as he takes both cheeks of my ass into
his hands - kneading and squeezing them as a test of their firmness. Continuing
down over my legs, he examines the hard, corded muscles of my thighs and calves.
Responding to his touch, my cock grows even harder. Now he commands me to.

"Bend and spread your legs".

Immediately, I shuffle into position and move my feet as far apart as my
shackles permit. However, my wrist restraints don't allow me to reach behind and
open myself up to his scrutiny. Futilely, he tries to kick my feet further apart
- they are already spread as wide as my chains allow - but I recognise this as a
gesture on his part of his power over me.

"How's it going, Ben?" I hear Theo Russell's question to his son.

"So far, so good, Pa. You were right about him. He's pretty impressive. Perhaps
a bit older than I thought but that isn't really a problem. He possesses a good
strong body and he appears to be sound in wind and limb as the saying goes.
He'll make a good field hand. That should make you happy, Silas. Another slave
for the fields, eh? No doubt with the crops ready for harvesting, you can use
another worker, Silas? What do you say?"

"Indeed, Ben. That is, if your father decides to use him in that capacity? My
view is that he should be used as a work slave and not as some fancy house
servant." Silas replies sourly.

"Is there any doubt as to where you'll use him, Pa?"

"Well I'm not sure, Ben. When your mother and sister see him they'll want him to
serve in the house. But I did promise Silas he could use him at harvest time."
Theo replies.

Bent double, I wait patiently as the three men discuss my future - a future in
which I haven't any say.

"Look Pa. I'm with Silas. This slave belongs in the fields. He has a strong
body with the promise of many years? service. Put him in the house and he'll
become soft and flabby and that would be a pity. The slave deserves better than
that. And you did mention you want to use him as a stud. You need to keep him
fit and healthy for that. No, my recommendation is that you buy him as a field
slave."

"Thanks Ben and I'll take your advice - although I might have to argue that with
the womenfolk when they see him. But I did bring you along this morning for your
expert opinion and I'll act on it."

"Thanks, Pa. I'll just check him out for soundness."

Now I feel Ben's finger brushing lightly up and down the cleft between my
buttocks. It pauses long enough to excite the sensitive area surrounding my
anus. As I relax, the finger is quickly thrust through my sphincter and seeks
out my prostate. My cock throbs in response and I feel the precursors to an
ejaculation as my pre-cum dribbles out of my piss-slit. As Ben's finger probes
the depths of my body, my balls are cupped in his other hand and are jiggled
up and down before each is rolled between his finger and thumb. Finally, he is
satisfied and, with a dismissive slap on the ass, he orders me to

"Stand and face the front."

Once more, I stand at display and bow my head. I watch as my cock, jutting out
at right angles to my belly, bobs up and down with each of its contractions and
continues to dribble out the essence of my masculinity.

"I`m nearly done here, Pa." Ben tells his father as his fist encircles my cock
and tickles its sensitive tip. I re-act by involuntarily clenching my buttocks
and thrusting my hips back and forth as though I`m fucking his fist. "Well at
least we know his dick works." He adds laughingly.

Withdrawing his hand from my cock, Ben orders me to. "DROP TO YOUR KNEES!"

Now on my knees, he runs his hands over my cropped head before he examines my
ears, eyes and nose. Then, tapping the side of my face, he commands me to.

"OPEN YOUR MOUTH! WIDE!"

I hasten to obey and feel his finger checking the soundness of my teeth and the
health of my tongue. Finally, his inspection of me now completed, Ben tells me
to,

"Stand and face the front.".

"There Pa, all done. He gets my tick of approval." He advises his father.

Then turning to his younger brother, Joel, he says.

"There you go little brother. The slave is all yours. Get to it."

How do I describe what follows next? How do I convey that utter shame and
humiliation I feel as a disinterested sixteen years old - almost half my age -
tries to emulate his older brother and fumbles his way through an inspection
of me? His distaste at touching me is evident and it is only at the stern
insistence of his father that he perseveres. His loud protests at when I'm made
to bend over for him to check out my soundness, is matched by his revulsion at
having to touch my prick. His comments to both are.

"This IS disgusting. It's just sooo GROSS!"

My thoughts echo his words.

I'm ignored as the three older men continue to discuss me; they speculate on
what I'm worth and how much I'm likely to sell for. They appear to set a price
on how far they'll bid for me and once that is decided, the four walk away from
the podium without a backward glance.

I'm subjected to many such inspections during the morning and intuitively I know
for what I'm being inspected. Mostly the interest shown in me is for my capacity
as a work slave, but there are other men whose interest in me would see me in
their beds opening up my body for their pleasure.

I'm revolted by one such buyer - a man I judge to be aged about sixty,
repulsively ugly and monstrously overweight, and whose face and bald head are
covered in beads of perspiration; my nostrils wrinkle at the stale smell of the
sweat that stains his underarms and chest. He licks his lips lasciviously as he
fondles my cock and balls and plays with my ass. As he does so, I feel a
suppressed disgust - principally with myself - at my body's unwilling response
to his touch. I am terrified that I could soon belong to him. The unremitting,
back-breaking labour of the fields has greater appeal to me than being this
man's pleasure slave. I'm relieved when he loses interest in me and waddles off
to examine another young slave four places to my right.

Once, during the morning, I catch a glimpse of my master as he inspects two
slaves placed further down the line from me. By a simple process of counting
back from my position, I calculate that these two slaves are Lots 16 and 17 -
Lot 16, of course, was my recent partner in the shower. He is showing great
interest in them and I realise that either of the two could be my master's
choice as a replacement for me. Saddened by this realisation and homesick for
my master and his farm, I hear myself loudly pleading.

"MASTER! MASTER! PLEASE MASTER!"

The two blond cousins, alerted to our master's presence by my shouts, add their
pleas to my own.

We don't hear the swish of the canes as three overseers apply them to our backs
and asses. Our punishment attracts the attention of nearby bystanders who watch
with great interest, as we are caned. Immediately, we fall silent and obey the
order to

"QUIETEN DOWN! STAND STILL!"

I'm heartbroken at my master's callous disregard for me and now I silently cry
for what I have lost.

Quietly, I stand with my head bowed and wait in my chains to be sold.

I don't have much longer to wait. Soon it is lunchtime, the crowd of buyers are
thinning out and the overseers move towards us - it is time to take us into the
auction-yard.


To be continued......