Changed Circumstances

By: Jean-Christophe
(© 2011 by the author)

The author retains all rights. No reproductions are allowed without the author's consent. Comments are appreciated at...

Chapter 4
Along the Corridor

My muffled shouts echo down the long corridor that leads to ... where?

I'm conscious of my desperate struggling and I know the guards are furious with me. But I'm beyond caring. Suddenly, they lose patience and, releasing their hold of me, they force me to my knees. They are "old-hands" at handling the newly enslaved, and I suffer under their expertise as their heavy, leather straps rain down upon my exposed shoulders and back. Screaming uselessly through my gag, I try to escape their anger by crawling away, but they follow and continue to lash me. Finally, I realise the futility of my protest, and I drop onto my belly in an act of submission. Unforgiving, they give me another two blows for good measure. As I lie there, I see a pair of trousered legs standing before me and I hear a voice asking.

"The new slave giving you trouble, is he?"

"It's nothing that we can't handle, sir!"

"Very well, then! Carry on!"

As the legs walk away from me, I wonder who they belong to; obviously someone in authority, judging by the deferential tone of the guard's reply and his use of the title "sir". From my lowly position on the floor, I dare not look up in case this is taken as disrespect on my part. My fear of the overseers' straps overwhelms any curiosity I have. I lie trembling and await further direction from my handlers.

"GET UP! Get off your belly and onto your hands and knees. NOW!"

As I hasten to obey, I once more feel the leather strap as it cuts across my naked back, and now I'm made to crawl to my destination — wherever that is. To encourage me on my way, the guards "toe" my ass to keep me moving.

It's impossible for me to describe my abject despair. Less than two hours ago, I was the proud, young heir of the enormously wealthy and powerful Barrois estate. Now I crawl naked like an animal to the next stage of my enslavement. If it is the guards' intention to dehumanise me, then they are monumentally successful.

Crawling on my hands and knees, I have a new perspective of the world. Not allowed to raise my head, I must keep my eyes fixed straight ahead, and I now have a "dog's-eye" view of my immediate environment. My handlers tower over me, and my view of them doesn't extend above their knees. I have literally been reduced to the level of an animal and this is my ultimate debasement to date.

But then, I had thought that about every indignity visited upon me in the Court of Disputations. The revelation that I was slave-born, my dispossession, the return to slavery, the substitution of my given name with that of my new slave name, Rafe, and the very public humiliation of my enforced disrobing, had each, in its turn, seemed the final disgrace only to be replaced by yet another. Is this — my crawling along on all fours like a dog — to be superseded by some greater degradation? It is hard for me to imagine what could be worse than this.

As I move quickly forward on all fours, I'm acutely aware of my nudity. I'm deeply shamed by it and yet I have a strange, new sense of freedom. My cock and balls, no longer constrained by clothing, hang low from my body and swing freely between my thighs, and as I move forward, on one knee after the other, I experience the sensation of the two cheeks of my buttocks rubbing against each other.

I'm ordered to, "STOP", as my handlers are joined by several others, and I'm now surrounded by legs. Patiently, I wait as the group talk among themselves over the top of me. With my head bowed, I can't see who is talking, but I hear the words, and I know the conversation is about me.

"Is this the last one for the day?

"Yep! He's it. How many does that make for the day?"

"Eleven all up — that includes this one. We took seven over to the forge earlier. They've all been branded and collared and are waiting for the dealers to pick them up."

"So that's another four to be done, including this one. Where are the other three?"

"They're still with the assessor. He's doing the last one now and is almost ready for this one."

"Then we won't keep him waiting. MOVE!"

Suddenly, I scream through my gag as a paroxysm of pain sweeps through my body; my balls feel as though they've just been stung by a wasp. My discomfort is the cause for much laughter among the "legs", and once more I'm ordered to, "MOVE!", and to give emphasis to this latest command, I'm once more subjected to the indescribable pain.

I'm unaware that one of the newer legs is equipped with a special cane — the newly released "WHIPPISTIK". Made from a synthetic material, this long, slender cane is incredibly flexible and tapers down to a needle-thin point. It is very versatile in that it's capable of inflicting great pain to its victim, and that in the hands of an "expert", this pain can be localised to just one area of the body. It is a favourite instrument of control among the courts' guards, and they practice long and hard on their charges to perfect their use of it. It can be used in the traditional way — to deliver a painful stripe to a slave's back or ass — or alternatively, with a simple flick of the wrist, to centre that pain on a nipple, an asshole, a cockhead, or, as in my case, the testicles. It is guaranteed by the manufacturer to bring even the most recalcitrant slave to "heel" quickly, and I'd recently issued a few to my overseers for trialling on my slaves. I'm well aware of the cane's effectiveness; even more so now that it has been used on me.

Desperately, I scuttle forward on all fours in an effort to avoid the cane's sting as behind me I hear the guards' crude laughter at the comical spectacle I make.

"There's nothing quite like 'tickling' their balls to get them moving. It works every time." I hear my tormentor say.

Subdued, humiliated and fearful of further chastisement, I now comply with all the commands of my two handlers. Guided by them, I obediently continue to crawl down the long corridor towards a door with a notice affixed to it and which, in bold, black letters, declares it to be the "OFFICE OF SLAVE ASSESSMENTS & REGISTRATIONS — REGISTRAR: CYRUS T HUMBOLDT" .

Commanded to, "STOP!" I now wait as a guard opens the door for me. Then, ordered to "GET IN!" I make an undignified entry as the other guard propels me forward onto my belly by pushing his boot up against my ass.

Behind me I hear the loud laughter of the two guards.
 

Part 2
Cyrus T Humboldt, Registrar

"STAND UP! Stand with your back to the wall and put your hands behind your head. NOW!"

Hastily, I scramble to my feet and adopt the position demanded of me.

"LOWER YOUR EYES TO THE FLOOR!"

Again, I hasten to comply. The harsh tone of the shouted commands tells me that my handlers won't tolerate any hesitancy or show of defiance on my part. My fear of punishment is now such that any thoughts of disobedience no longer exist in my thinking. How quickly I'm moving from being a free man to becoming a slave.

I find myself standing beside two newly enslaved young men. From the corner of my eye, I see their trembling, naked bodies and I hear their soft crying and sniffling. If I could look at their faces I would also see the terror mirrored in their eyes.

Nearby a nervous, young guard stands proudly resplendent in a new uniform. Two days into his cadetship, he has been sent by his superiors to observe a slave assessment at first-hand and to wait for the arrival of my two handlers with whom he has been assigned to work.

I try to see where I am by surreptitiously peeping around the room. The moderately sized room has a hospital-like appearance with white tiled walls and a plain, buff-coloured, linoleum-covered floor. Spaced at intervals around the room are stainless steel furnishings — their uses elude me — but the one that attracts my attention is directly in front of me.

It is a stainless steel bench about waist high upon which a third young man is resting on all fours. He, too, is naked, and he has his head bowed in humiliation and defeat; his body shakes with his sobs. Humiliatingly, he is being masturbated by another man who, judging by his nakedness and the collar around his neck, is a slave assisting the Registrar in his duties.

Suddenly, I'm confronted by a short, squat, middle-aged man wearing a white surgical coat. I'm in the presence of the Registrar of Slaves, and he'll assess me before issuing ownership papers for me to my master.

"This is the last one for the day, is it?" He asks my handlers. "What's he done?"

"Yes! He's the last of them. He's an unusual case. You don't recognise him?"

"No! Should I?"

"That's the former Lucien Barrois. Turns out he was born a slave and has been living a lie all his life until he was found out. Now he's just a slave named Rafe."

"Really?" The Registrar is genuinely surprised at this revelation and peers intently at me through the spectacles perched on the end of his nose. "Who would have thought it? Yes, I do see. I recognise his face from his photos in the social columns. Of course, I never moved in the same exalted circles as he did, so I never did see him in the flesh."

"Well, you're about to now," the older of my two guards laughs. "You can't see any more of him than having him stand before you in his birthday suit as you assess him. After you've finished with him, you'll "know" him better than anyone I'll wager. My guess is, you'll know him inside out."

The Registrar, always a serious man with an inflated sense of his own importance, chooses to ignore the guard's crude attempt at humour at his expense and asks me.

"Is it true boy? Were you Lucien Barrois?'

"Yes," is my simple, embarrassed reply.

I am rewarded for it with a stinging, open-handed slap to the right side of my face by the extremely angry Registrar. The brevity of my answer has insulted his dignity.

"Show me respect, boy. A slave always addresses a free man as sir. And remember a slave only speaks when he is given permission to do so. Now, let's try again, shall we? Were you Lucien Barrois?"

"Yes, sir," I answer respectfully through my tears.

"Then, what is your name now?"

"It's Rafe, sir."

"Good boy. That wasn't too difficult was it? I've given you your first lesson in slave manners. Now what do you say?"

"Thank you, sir," I sniffle.

I find it galling that I must show "respect" to this man and humbly thank him for his lesson to me in slave manners. Just a few short hours ago, he wouldn't have registered in my consciousness. Now, by a cruel twist of fate, he is my "better", and I must defer to him and to all other free men, no matter how base they are, simply because they are free and I'm a slave.

I'm repulsed by the Registrar's appearance. His overweight body reeks overpoweringly of a cheap, chain-store deodorant and his salt-and-pepper-coloured hair lies in long strands across the shining dome of his head. He has grown his hair long on the left side and lowered his hair-part level with the top of his ear so that he can "train" the long strands back over his scalp in an attempt to disguise his baldness. I dislike the man, but I envy him his freedom. He is free, whereas I am a slave.

His interest in me is temporarily diverted by a loud "UGH!" from the young slave still on his hands and knees on the bench. He has been brought to climax and is now pumping his seed into a measuring glass held by the Registrar's slave-assistant. As he does so, he is lewdly watched by my two handlers who laugh at his embarrassment. I am dismayed; am I also to be subjected to this indignity?

The Registrar turns his attention to the kneeling slave and taking the measuring glass from his assistant, he closely studies the "specimen" before declaring his satisfaction.

"HUMPH! Very good. About four milliliters, and it's the right colour and consistency." Then sniffing at the glass he continues; "Sweet smelling, too. I'll just check it to see if he's fertile."

The new cadet guard is both curious and eager to learn, and tentatively, he asks the Registrar.

"Please, sir. Can I ask what you're doing?"

The Registrar peers over his glasses at the young guard and asks in reply, "You're new here, aren't you, young man?"

"Yes, sir. This is only my second day on the job."

"Well, then, let me welcome you. What are your impressions of your new job, so far?"

"Well, I suppose ... I don't know ... it's all a little strange. But I guess I'll get used to handling the slaves. But I'm not too keen on touching them, though. You know ... they're naked and ... and you know ... having to touch their peckers and backsides. UGH! THAT IS SO GROSS!"

The Registrar and my handlers laugh loudly at the cadet's queasiness, and the older of my two handlers hastens to re-assure him.

"You're the new trainee sent to work with us, aren't you, lad? Well, don't worry. You'll soon settle into the job and won't think twice about handling the slaves. Just think of them as livestock and you'll be all right. By the way … what's your name, and how old are you?"

"Jason. My name is Jason, sir, and I'm eighteen. And, yes, the supervisor sent me along to meet you here and also to see how slaves are assessed."

"Well, here's your first lesson, Jason. You don't need to address me or any other of the guards as sir. We're all on an equal footing here. My name's Harold, by the way, and this, here, is my partner, Craig. But you do have to address the Registrar as Mr Humboldt."

The cadet smiles broadly at the warmth of his welcome and the strength of the handshakes. He fails to notice the slave-assistant standing, ignored, in the background.

"Good lad, Jason. Just watch what we do and you'll be all right," Harold adds.

"Young man, you asked me what I'm doing with this slave." The Registrar impatiently rejoins the conversation. "I've just taken a sample of his semen. It's all part of his assessment, and the results will be entered into his ownership papers. A buyer needs to know that a slave is "capable" when he buys him; after all, he might want to breed from him. So what I do here is to give each slave a very basic test to see if he's able to produce sperm. By the way, this one passed with flying colours."

"You mentioned you were going to check if he was fertile, Mr Humboldt. How do you do that?"

"Good question, young man. I see you're eager to learn. A slave, on average, should produce two to six milliliters of ejaculate. Now, what I'll do, is just check one or two drops of his semen under the microscope and see how many 'swimmers' he has and how active they are. As I said — it's only a basic test and not a sperm count. That'll be up to his new master to have that done."

I listen to this conversation in horror. The matter-of-fact way in which they discuss the new slave's breeding potential is indicative of their contempt for him as a person and their unsympathetic indifference to his plight.

Then I ask myself — 'Why am I surprised? When did I ever consider the feelings of my former slaves?' The answer is — 'NEVER!' Just a few short hours ago, I was a slave-owner and I was as guilty of this contempt and indifference as they are now. And soon, I will experience their free men's contempt for me.

With my head bowed, I can't see, but I listen as the Registrar invites Jason to view the slave's "swimmers" through his microscope. Jason is obviously intrigued and as he peers through the 'scope, he expresses his interest with an incredulous "WOW!"

His curiosity satisfied, Jason watches as the Registrar continues his assessment of the slave.

Turning to his slave-assistant, the Registrar snaps, "Fetch the needles. NOW!"

The slave hurriedly retrieves a stainless steel tray from a bench and waits patiently as the Registrar prepares to give the slave a series of injections while explaining to Jason the necessity for them.

"You see, Jason. It's important to send a slave away from here healthy and prepared. What I'm about to do is to give this slave a series of 'shots' to keep him healthy and to prepare him for his new life. It's a requirement under state law that all slaves offered for sale are protected against the most basic of illnesses. The state is very conscious of the economic cost, should an epidemic break out among the slave population. The first shot I'll give him is for tetanus. Most likely a young, fit slave like this one will be bought for hard labour, and as he'll be working naked, it's inevitable that he'll sustain minor cuts, scratches, and grazes. Therefore, we need to ensure he has protection against those eventualities. Then I'll give him several other vaccines including those for pneumonia and the latest influenza viruses. This last one is most important — the last thing a slave-owner wants is for an epidemic of 'flu in his herd. Apart from the dangers to a slave's well-being, there's the loss of productivity to consider. So while he's up on the table, I'll just give him his jabs, and then he's finished, and we're ready for the next slave."

"Where will you give him his needles, Mr Humboldt?" Jason inquires.

"Why! In his posterior, young man. Where else?"

The Registrar would never consider the crude use of words like "ass" or "cock and balls", even when speaking of a slave. He takes great care not to use the common language of the guards and overseers. After all, he's an important officer of the courts, and it's his refinement that places him above their vulgarity, isn't it? He reflects sadly that all too soon an impressionable Jason will descend to their level. Such a pity; he appears to be a very nice, young man.

The slave gives a series of yelps of pain as the needles are thoughtlessly thrust into his flesh. Then finally, the assessment now completed, the Registrar dismisses the slave with a cheery slap on the ass.

"There, all done! Right you are then, boy. Hop down and join your friends over by the wall."

I sense, rather than see, the slave rejoin his companions. He stands alongside them ruefully rubbing the sites of his injections, and, like them, he is crying softly. Their fear is evident; they know their branding and collaring is imminent. But they must now wait for me and my own assessment.

I reflect on the Registrar's comments about the inoculations of slaves. It had always made perfect sense to me. My late grandfather — can I still regard him as such — had always insisted that his slaves were "protected" and he had them inoculated each year against influenza, and I had carried on this practice. As a slave-owner, I had wanted to safeguard my investment in my slave-herd and avoid any losses in either productivity or by their mortality. Now, as a slave, this all takes on a new perspective. I now see things very differently.

Encouraged by the Registrar's willingness to answer his enquiries, the ever curious Jason has yet another series of questions.

"Mr Humboldt. What are those three guilty of?" He gestures towards the three crying slaves standing alongside me in a line against the wall. "Why have they been enslaved? What did they do?"

"You have so many questions, Jason." The Registrar laughs, but nevertheless he's impressed by Jason's eagerness to learn. "Vandalism, Jason. They are guilty of vandalism. They are so-called 'graffiti artists', and they were caught red-handed two nights ago defacing a wall of a public building. One could say they are victims of the gubernatorial election. The incumbent governor is anxious to get as many 'law and order' votes as possible and has widened the vandalism laws to cover graffiti — a popular move with the voters, I hear. These three are unlucky. They're the first to be caught, tried, and enslaved under the new law, and their fates should send a clear message to other graffiti artists that society won't tolerate this type of anti-social behaviour any longer."

The Registrar notes the simple, "OH!", of Jason's reply at this news and the bright red flush of guilt moving up from his neck to his face.

Instinctively, he knows that, at some stage, Jason has been involved in this undesirable practice; most likely as a member of a youthful gang of teenage boys. He sincerely hopes the young man has put that all behind him now that he is a cadet guard. No doubt, Jason — as do so many other misguided people — sees graffiti writing as a harmless prank. Well, those days are over — thank goodness — and the mandatory sentence for a graffiti artist is now lifetime enslavement. He reflects that the three new slaves standing by the wall are paying a heavy price for their destructive vandalism and they are now to channel all their artistic energies into constructive endeavours for their new masters. Yes, he really hopes their fates will serve as a warning to Jason. It would be such a pity if one day he had to process Jason into slavery. But then again, that could prove both interesting and enjoyable.

His long experience tells him that under Jason's tight, brand-new uniform is a delightfully taut and muscular body. And it's a body that's very, very different to the beer-gutted ones of the other two guards, Harold and Craig.

He glances at his watch and sees it's almost the end of his working day. He sighs expectantly as he thinks of his new pleasure slave waiting for him at home. He'd recently assessed the young slave after his conviction and had felt an instant attraction to him; so much so that he'd followed the slave's progress through the system and purchased him. And to date, this new slave hasn't disappointed him.

It's been a busy day and the workload has been heavy. Already he's assessed ten new slaves and he still has one to go. He glances over at the slave and decides this one is the "pick of the day". What's the slave's name? Ah! That's it … Rafe. Oh, well, let's get on with it. He then shouts his instruction to the slave, "RAFE! GET OVER HERE. NOW!"

To be continued...

Posted: 06/14/11