Date: Thu, 20 Jan 2011 20:50:58 -0800 (PST)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Galley Slave" Chapter 5

THE GALLEY SLAVE
"A YOUNG MAN'S ODYSSEY INTO SLAVERY'
Chapter 5
"Waking to a New Day"

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 5:  "Waking to a New Day"

Despite the horrors of the day and the grimness of our situation, Joachim
and I sleep soundly.  Our bellies are filled to capacity and we are able to
stretch out full length on the straw strewn floor. After the cramped,
huddled conditions of the galley's hold this is indeed true luxury.

We look for mutual comfort in each other's company but despite our need to
talk, our tiredness overtakes us and we are soon asleep. It is as well we
sleep so soundly tonight for we have no idea of the horrors that await us
tomorrow and we will need all our strength to confront them.  But for now,
our minds have shut out today's traumas and we sleep the slumber of the
blissfully ignorant.

Occasionally, I stir and vaguely hear the snoring, grunting, groaning and
farting of my fellow slaves and the rattling of their chains as they move
in their sleep. Worn out by the day's events, they too are in a deep sleep.

The pen in which we are imprisoned isn't overly large and as we move in our
sleep our naked bodies touch. I have been naked for some weeks now -ever
since my capture whenever that was - and I'm still unused to it. Nakedness
is the natural state of a galley slave and inevitably I must adjust to it
but I will never accept it. I will resent it and always see it as demeaning
and a deliberate ploy of our masters to dehumanise us and reduce us to the
level of what we truly are - beasts-of-burden.

At this stage, I'm not to know that my nakedness will serve me well on
occasions. Once I am chained to a bench and made to strain at the oar, I
will appreciate that. But mostly, I will view my nakedness with bitterness.
As the whip cuts across my back and curls itself around my chest and belly
I will scream out my pain and impotent rage. But it will do me no good; my
masters will only laugh at my frustration.

This early into my slavery I wonder why our masters keep us nude. Couldn't
they at least give us a scrap of cloth to cover our loins and hide our
shame? Couldn't they at least make this small concession to our humanity?

But once I'm shackled to the rowing bench, I'll discover the answers - the
principal being that whips are more effective on my naked body.

I'll learn it takes a while to get a galley "up to speed". From the moment
the captain gives the order to row, his slaves are driven hard to reach the
speed he demands of them. They are constantly scourged by the overseers'
whips, cursed as lazy, infidel dogs and taken to the very edge of their
endurance.

Usually a rowing session starts slowly to allow the slaves' tired and
stressed muscles to 'warm- up'. Gradually the number of drum beats increase
until the galley reaches the rowing speed its captain requires of it.

It is the captain who regulates the drum's beat but it is his overseers who
ensure the slaves match their oar strokes to its incessant boom-boom. It is
the drum that set the pace for the rowers and it tells them the number of
oar strokes they must strike each minute.  No concessions are made for the
slaves' suffering or for their tortured bodies. The drum expects much of
its slaves. Its beat re-echoes monotonously in their heads and it is
insatiable in its expectations of them.

Eventually, I'll discover these things for myself and as I alternatively
push forward and pull back on my oar I will become one with it; I will be
an extension of it and I am to be its driving force. It is my muscle that
will power it and if I don't meet the drum's expectations then no mercy
will be shown to me by the overseers.

In time I'll realise it is the drum that is my real master; it speaks to me
constantly and it will demand much of me.

When the captain is satisfied with the galley's speed, it is up to his
overseers' whips to keep the oar strokes moving in time with the beat of
the drum. There can be no diminishing of the galley's speed or of the
rowers' labours. They will row until they drop from exhaustion or until the
captain decides it is time to cease.

There can be no breaks in the rowing session and the oars must continue to
rise and dip in unison. There isn't time to feed or water the unhappy
slaves and if the need for them to urinate or defecate arises, then they
must attend to that as best they can while they row. Habitually, all galley
slaves learn to time the expulsion of their bodily wastes to their 'rest'
periods. But inevitably accidents do happen and at one time or another they
do soil their benches. It is at such times that I'll be thankful for my own
nakedness.

I'm also to learn that our nakedness serves another purpose. An overseer
can tell by the stress on a slave's body whether or not he is fully
applying himself to his labours. As he strains at his oar, a slave's
muscles are thrown into sharp relief and the overseers watch closely to see
that those muscles are stretched to their limits. Nothing less is expected
of a slave and nothing less is accepted. If an overseer considers a slave
is malingering then his whip is brought into play with devastating
efficiency.

In the main, the galley season on the Middle Sea is at the height of summer
when the sun hangs relentless, like a ball of molten metal in a pitiless
blue sky and the hot, dry winds blow northward from the Saharan deserts. It
is then that a galley slave truly experiences "hell on earth". His naked
body is baked dry by the sun's merciless rays, broiled by the ocean's
humidity and blasted by the scorching, desert winds. This is when a galley
slave is at the nadir of his existence and it is at such times that he
longs for a merciful death as a release from his intolerable suffering.

I'll also learn the wearing of clothes can add to the galley slave's misery
as he tugs at his long, heavy oar. Long ago, the galley captains discovered
the wearing of sweat laden clothing contributes to a debilitating chafing
of the slave's underarms and nether regions and this can lead to serious
skin disorders. Better then to keep him naked, healthy and capable of
rowing.

These are the things I'm yet to learn about my own nakedness.

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

With the first predawn light, I stir from my sleep and as always the "alarm
clock" for my awakening is the first, delicious stirrings of my early
morning erection.  Momentarily, as I rub the sleep from my eyes and stretch
the cramp from my body and limbs, I forget where I am.  The pleasurable
pulsing of my cock demands my attention, I take it into my closed fist and
I slowly work its iron rod hardness. To my mind there is nothing more
enjoyable than these first, solitary minutes of a new day. Temporarily, my
masturbatory pleasure blinds me to my surroundings and the horrors of my
plight.

Then, all around me I hear the stirrings of my fellow slaves as they too
wake to a new day.  Alongside of me Joachim wakes, rolls over onto his back
and stretches. Embarrassed, I notice his massive erection and I mentally
fight the guilty urge to reach and touch it.  He looks at me, his eyes
travel down the length of my body to my rampant cock still imprisoned
within my clenched fist and he smiles broadly. Caught out, I blush
furiously.

I am to learn that Joachim doesn't share my shyness and sexual guilt; these
are alien concepts to him. Subsequently, he will tell me that "sex is
wonderful" and he rejects any sense of wrongdoing in his enjoyment of
it. He has this simple philosophy that "his maker wouldn't have given him a
cock if he wasn't meant to enjoy it". At first I was shocked by his views;
they ran counter to all I'd been taught. Eventually, I'll come to
understand and share them.

Joachim tells me his life back in Cologne had been a happy one. As one of
his father's apprentices he'd been treated the same as them and he had
worked, ate and slept with them.  They shared a common dormitory on the top
story of his father's house far from his mother's ever prying eyes. There,
along with his fellow apprentices, he'd learned to explore and to enjoy his
burgeoning sexuality.  Their long days were filled with hard work under his
father's harsh discipline but their nights with unrestrained pleasure. I am
to learn that sex is important to Joachim.

Sex among galley slaves is very much "hit or miss". Shackled to an oar and
short chained to a rowing bench "full" sex is impossible. For that they
must wait until they are employed on their land based labours and are
locked into their barracks of a night time. On the galleys, the slaves have
limited choices - they have either their fists or their mouths. They can
indulge in what my father shamefully referred to as the sin of self-abuse
or they can allow another slave to pleasure them with either his fist or
his mouth. However, there is danger in this for the slaves.

Our masters deny their slaves any concessions for their sexual needs and
quite the opposite is true. Sex among slaves on the rowing benches is
frowned upon and actively discouraged. They see the "energy" expended in a
slave's sexual exploits as energy diverted from the oars. They believe sex
tires the slave and robs him of his strength-valuable strength that is
required to power the oar. Therefore they are forever watchful especially
during the night time rest periods.  Working in shifts, there is always an
overseer prowling the cat-walk between the rowing pits watching to see that
the slaves are "resting and recharging".

Any slave caught in the act of self-abuse or slaves caught giving mutual
comfort to one another are unshackled from their benches and have the
bastinado applied to the soles of their feet. The threat of the bastinado
is salutary and consequently galley slaves exercise extreme caution in
their sexual exploits. But a slave's basic urge for sex is ever present and
it can sometimes overcome his fear of the bastinado. Therefore slaves will
always take a gamble and risk the bastinado's indescribable pain for a few
stolen moments of illicit pleasure.

During my rest periods, I am to find it is possible to surreptitiously
practise self-sex on the rowing bench but always with one eye on the
overseer's position.

Suddenly pandemonium reigns within our prison.  With loud, incomprehensible
shouting and cracking of their whips our handlers rudely awaken those of us
who are still asleep. Even as our cocks wilt, we know we must get to our
feet. This amazes me; we don't speak or understand our captors' language
but we do recognise the intent behind their words.

They waste very little time in making us ready for the day's
activities. The doors to our pens are thrown open and we are ordered out
into the passageway between the cages. Then we are driven out into an open
area enclosed by high walls. If I'd hoped to breathe fresh air after the
fetid atmosphere of the slave pens then I'm to be disappointed. An
overpowering, putrid stench permeates the yard; this is the slaves' latrine
area and we have been brought here to empty our bladders and to evacuate
our bowels.

The design of the latrine is simple and consists of a shallow, narrow,
stone-lined channel running the full length of the yard. We are ordered to
straddle our legs over the channel - this is made difficult by our leg
irons, but somehow we manage - and to squat one behind the other and
ordered to 'let go".  I look down between my outstretched feet and I'm
surprised to see water flowing down the channel flushing away our
waste. This is beyond my comprehension; by comparison the sanitary
arrangements on my father's farm were crude and rudimentary and consisted
of either a hole in the ground or a chamber pot.

The concept of water being used to flush away so odious a product of the
human body amazes me. Until now, I'd regarded my captors as "primitive" and
somehow inferior to myself. I know nothing of their knowledge of the
science of hydraulics or of their use of water for both practical and
ascetic purposes. I haven't seen the colourful pools that are the focal
point of their gardens or heard the tinkling fountains that provide music
and cooling to the interior of their houses.

As we squat, we are denied any privacy and no concessions are made to
preserve our dignity.  Even as we strain the whips are put to our backs and
shoulders to hurry us along. Our captors have much to do today and they are
in a hurry to process us further into our slavery.

With my belly now empty, I look forward to it being replenished. I wonder;
will our breakfast be as tasty and substantial as last evening's meal? But
again, I'm doomed to disappointment.  There isn't to be any food for us
this morning. Blissfully, I'm unaware of the sinister reasons for our
enforced fasting.

This morning we are to be branded. We are to receive the true symbol of
slavery; the mark that will forever identify us as slaves is to be seared
into our flesh and our suffering will be immense. The shock of the branding
iron affects its victims in many ways. Strapped down on the branding table,
a terrified slave will often lose control of his bodily functions and will
piss, shit or vomit - sometimes all three. Our handlers are aware of this
and wisely they are taking precautions against such mishaps. Our bellies
are empty as are our bladders and bowels. We are now ready to be taken to
the branding tables.

Our captors work quickly to get us to the branding yard. It's obvious they
have done this many times before and all around us there is panic and
confusion among my fellow slaves; no mercy is shown to us and our handlers
enthusiastically bring their whips into play. For the next few minutes the
fearful sound of leather striking naked flesh echoes within the high stone
walls and the air is rent with our wailing.

Joachim and I quickly manoeuvre ourselves into position so that we are
together; even at this early stage of our friendship we are reluctant to be
separated. Whatever awaits us we'll face it together. Somehow there is
solace in this for me.

Confusion and uncertainty reigns; we don't know what is to happen to us and
we are tormented by our fear of the unknown. Already, we have experienced
much suffering at the hands of our captors and we know we can expect little
mercy from them. My instincts tell me I should be afraid - very afraid.

We are whip-driven from the yard, down a narrow passageway and through a
door opening into one of two adjacent holding pens. This pen is different
to the one in which we'd spent the night.  For a start it is much smaller
and it's only possible for us to stand scrunched tightly together in huddle
of terrified humanity. The heavily-barred front of the pen opens into a
small yard and fortuitously -Joachim and I manage to push our way through
to the bars and stand looking out at the activity taking place in the
yard. Our curiosity has got the better of us and soon we will regret our
eagerness to be at the front of our group. But for now we are unsuspecting
of what awaits us.

What we do see puzzles me. Standing in the centre of the yard are two long
wooden benches - approximately waist high and even as we watch we see they
are being prepared to receive their first victims. Our captors are
supervising four of their African helpers who are carefully adjusting
chains at either end of the benches and nearby, two of the emaciated, white
slaves we'd seen the previous day are tending two braziers. These two
miserable wretches are vigorously pumping bellows to keep the coals glowing
with red hot intensity. Protruding ominously from each brazier are two long
handles. Initially, I wonder about them before the awful truth dawns on me;
with sickening clarity I recognise them as branding irons. Our brandings
are imminent.

The smartest among my fellow slaves also recognise the branding irons and
in the ensuring panic they move to make themselves inconspicuous by pushing
back through our group to the rear of the pen. It's strange how fear makes
the mind work.  There isn't any hope that we'll be spared the branding
iron. We are all doomed to feel it fiery pain; yet fear and panic force us
to delay it for as long as possible. The more canny among us fight their
way to the rear of our group putting the unsuspecting between themselves
and the front of the cage. Their efforts will prove futile; they are only
delaying the inevitable. Now that we are aware of the awful reality,
Joachim and I join the scrum in vain efforts to move further away from the
front of the cage.  However, even the slower witted of us now recognise
what is about to happen and they vigorously resist our efforts to push
through to their rear. Joachim and I are vigorously repulsed and we remain
at the front of the cage near the door.

Outside of our prison, our captors are ready to begin their grim work and
acting on the instructions of their Arab masters the four African helpers
walk toward us. Panic grips our group and now in desperation; we renew our
frantic tussling to reach the false "sanctuary" at the rear of the
cage. None of us want to be the first to be dragged to the branding table
and like frightened animals in a slaughtering pen we struggle to avoid the
inevitability of our fates.

Trapped at the front of the pen I'm motivated by one thought - self
preservation. My blossoming friendship with Joachim is temporarily
forgotten and I leave him to fight his own battle. As an Arab unlocks the
door to our prison and the Africans enter, I'm gripped by terror and I
struggle vainly to lose myself in the seething, struggling mass of my
fellow slaves.

Suddenly, rough hands seize hold of me and I realise I'm in the strong grip
of two of the black assistants who begin to drag me out through the door
and towards the waiting branding table.  Panic-stricken I struggle against
them, I grab hold of the prison's bars in a vice-like grip and I hear my
disembodied cries of protest.

"Let me go! No! No! I don't want to be branded."

Through my confusion and fear I see black fingers trying to pry mine free
from the bars.  Somehow, I have found unknown reserves of strength to fight
my captors and hold on with grim determination. Fleetingly, I have the
false sense that I'm winning the struggle.  But the battle is uneven, my
triumph is brief and it's doomed to failure. Suddenly my world explodes
into a paroxysm of unimaginable pain as the whip of an Arab handler rains
down on my unprotected shoulders and back. No mercy is shown to me and I'm
to be an example to my fellows that our masters won't tolerate any acts of
defiance or insubordination. The whip forces me to my knees and I scrunch
my body into a tight ball to protect me from its fury.

Rough hands seize my shoulders and I'm hauled to my feet. The two black
handlers are powerfully built and I am no match for their combined
strength. Hauled bodily from the sanctuary of the pen, they drag me
unceremoniously across the cobblestones to the waiting table. Vaguely I
hear my howls of protest and my pleading joins with that of my fellow
victim.  I look to see who this is? Is it Joachim? No, it isn't; it is a
young seaman from my vessel who I knew only as Tom. Through my struggling,
I watch as Tom is lifted bodily and placed face down on one of the two
adjoining tables. Now it is my turn.

Effortlessly, my handlers lift me high and belly flop me onto the other
table with such force that I am temporarily winded.

Sobbing wildly, my pleas for mercy join with Tom's and even as I beg I know
we'll be ignored.  My struggles are futile and I feel the tightening of the
chains as they are fastened around my wrists and ankles securing me to the
bench and immobilising my body. My body is stretched out tautly along the
length of the bench top and my movements are now restricted to the nervous,
quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I gulp for air and the
almost explosive beating of my heart. I turn my head towards the braziers
and my eyes widen with terror as I see an Arab pull an iron from its fiery
bed of hot coals. My body is racked with sobs as I see the red glowing
symbol for "slave" at the end of the long-handled brand. My vision and all
my thoughts are centred on that branding iron.

I wait with bated breath and try to brace myself for what my over-active
brain tells me will be unimaginable pain. But I'm temporarily reprieved;
I'm not to be branded just yet for the Arab turns his back to me and
approaches Tom. I can't describe my sense of relief that it is Tom who'll
be branded first and not me. My mind is playing a cruel trick on me; these
feelings of relief at being spared pain for a few, precious moments
overwhelm me but it doesn't register that this only delays the
inevitable. I turn my head sideways and watch in fascinated horror as Tom
is branded.

I listen as Tom pleads for mercy and I watch as he struggles futilely on
the table. I see his naked arse heaving and his muscles bulging and flexing
as he fights vainly against the chains firmly holding him in place. With
the approach of the red-hot, branding iron, Tom begins to weep and he begs
to be spared the branding iron. As the glowing end of the iron touches the
tender, young skin of his left buttock, there is a momentary silence broken
only by the sizzling of burning flesh; the sickening smell of which assails
my nostrils. This is followed by Tom's animal-like scream from deep within
his body. The other Arab walks over to the branding table to examine his
companion's handiwork. I don't understand what they are saying but I hear
the cruelty in their laughter.

Terrified, I look on as a sobbing Tom is released and dragged away and
placed in a "recuperating" pen. I watch as a wildly shouting and struggling
Joachim is dragged out and over to the bench to take Tom's place on the
branding table.  The two Arabs now turn their attention to me. If I could
speak their language I would understand the Arab's instructions to his
black helpers.

"Hold him steady!"

I feel a firm hand pressing down on my arse preventing me from wriggling or
squirming and I know my branding is imminent; I wait on the other Arab. I'm
suspended in a limbo of dreadful expectation-of waiting for the hot iron to
sear itself into me and feeling the agonising pain as it does so. How long
do I wait?

I don't know, but each second seems an interminably long-time. My heart
pounds, my laboured breathing quickens and I am lathered in a fear induced
sweat. Then, I hear the sizzling and smell the scorching of my flesh as the
Arab touches me with his iron.

Momentarily, I feel nothing and then my nervous system explodes into
violent activity as it carries the signals of my pain to my brain. I hear
my own high pitched shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain throughout my
body. The intensity of my suffering is unbearable and my loud sobbing adds
to my misery. And intruding into this suffering is the thought that I'm now
a branded slave.

No time is lost in unchaining me from the table and already another
terrified victim is being dragged kicking and screaming from the holding
pen to take my place.  Once on my feet, my strength fails me and my knees
sag as I am half carried in the powerful grip of the blacks to the
recuperating pen. As I'm removed from my bench, I look towards Joachim.

Through my own pain-filled eyes, I see his body stretched taut on the
bench's unyielding surface I see the frantic thrusting of his well rounded
arse and the flexing of his muscles as he futilely fight against his
chains. And I hear his pleas for mercy.

Then as I'm thrust roughly through the door into the recuperating pen, I
hear Joachim's scream of agony. I hear the brand sizzling on his body and
the smell of his scorched flesh permeates the yard and is added to that of
Tom's and my own.

Exhausted and traumatised, I collapse to the floor of the pen and lie
semi-dazed alongside of Tom. Soon we are joined in our suffering by
Joachim.


To be continued......