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 5
'The Assessment Begins'

Cyrus T Humboldt takes his work seriously; about as seriously as he takes himself. Fastidious in his attitude to it and dedicated in its application, he really does enjoy what he does. After all, what other job gives you the opportunity to work all day with naked males. Of course these newly enslaved convicts can be a mixed lot ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous. But he has learned to take that in his stride. His philosophy is to "take them as they come". And, in reality, the gross specimens are few and far between — thank goodness. Usually, like the occasional females sent to him, he hurries them through and doesn't linger over them. The same can't be said about the younger, more attractive male criminals sent to him.

He doesn't hurry these assessments unless, of course, there's a backlog waiting for his attention — as does sometimes happen. No, he likes to take his time and give these slaves a "good assessment" and looking at the slave, Rafe, he just knows this will be a "good" assessment. He is very eager to start.

"RAFE! GET OVER HERE. NOW!"

As I hear the Registrar's shouted instruction to me, I snap out of my despondency and hasten over to him. I stand with my head bowed and wait. I listen as he invites the young cadet guard to assist him in my assessment.

"Jason, you might like to assist me as I assess this slave? You can observe and learn while I check him out."

"Thanks, Mr Humboldt. But I wouldn't know what to do. I don't know the first thing about slaves. Wouldn't I be in your way? I don't know where to start. I'd make a mess of things."

Jason's responses to the Registrar's invitation are hesitant and I'm glad; I really don't want him fumbling over me. It's bad enough being assessed by Cyrus Humboldt — the very thought of his pudgy hands wandering over my body makes me cringe — but the thought of an inexperienced lad who is three years my junior examining me is demeaning. However, it isn't to be my choice, and I must stand and wait.

"Nonsense, my boy! Just watch what I do and then if you're so inclined you can have a 'go'. There's no need to be shy. The slave won't bite. As you can see, he's still gagged, but that has to come out now."

Wordlessly he snaps his fingers and the slave-assistant — obviously well trained to anticipate the Registrar's instructions — removes the gag from my mouth. How I enjoy the freedom of not being gagged. I exercise my cramped jaw muscles by moving them from side to side and opening and closing my mouth. Gradually the tension in my jaws lessens and they return to normal. How good it feels.

"Well, Jason. The first things we look for when assessing a new slave are blemishes, you know — birthmarks, moles, unusually shaped freckles, scars, tattoos, things like that. Generally that's where I start. Now let's see if this slave has anything like that on him."

I stand placidly, as the registrar's hands expertly search my nude body for anything unusual that needs to be recorded in my certificate of ownership. The indignity of this isn't lost on me; tears of shame trickle down my face. His search is thorough; is it my imagination, or is he taking his time in his search for any imperfections on my body?

Satisfied that my body is free of the most obvious blemishes, he now searches in my "hidden" spots. I'm made to lift my arms above my head as he peers into my armpits and then to lift my feet as he examines their soles and between my toes. All the while the young guard is watching intently. The other two guards have temporarily lost interest in me and are noisily conversing together about some game or another — possibly football. But I don't doubt they stand ready to spring into action should I misbehave.

"So far! So good, Jason. The slave is remarkably free of any blemishes. That's excellent! An unblemished slave is worth considerably more than a blemished one. But we still have one spot to check out. Can you guess where, Jason?'

Jason, in his naivety, ponders this for several moments before finally giving in. Of course, I have guessed where and I blush with embarrassment.

I give up, Mr Humboldt. Where? Jason asks.

"It's obvious, Jason. We need to look in the cleft between his buttocks. You'd be surprised at how many slaves do have a birthmark or mole safely tucked away in there. And, of course, some even sport a tattoo in that spot. So let's have a look, shall we?"

"Right slave, let's have you in position, BEND AND SPREAD!"

Embarrassingly, for the second time today I find myself bent double and spreading my buttocks wide for an inspection. This second time is no easier nor less humiliating than the first time.

I cringe as I feel a finger slowly move up and down my ass-crack and then pause briefly to playfully tease my anus. Instinctively, I know this hasn't anything to do with looking for distinguishing features, and it has more to do with testing my "responsiveness". Thankfully, the finger moves on, and now I'm aware that my scrotum is stretched back through my legs for examination. I feel the gentle squeezing of both my balls between this odious man's index finger and thumb; the sensation this causes isn't painful, but nevertheless, I hold my breath.

"He's clear of any disfiguring marks," the Registrar announces triumphantly, and then with a series of playful pats on my rump, he tells me to, "Stand and face the front."

"What happens next, Mr Humboldt?" Do I detect a new eagerness in Jason's question?

"We'll need to take his body measurements for the records, Jason. Already, I can tell he's close to being perfect."

"How can you tell, Mr Humboldt? Can you tell that from just looking at him?"

"I most certainly can, Jason. One only needs to look at his musculature to know he's near to perfect. But he's gym-honed and that's very different from having a work-hardened body. But he looks good and should display well on the auction-block. And looking at him, I can tell his body dimensions are "spot on".

"How, Mr Humboldt?"

"Watch as I demonstrate, Jason. It's just a little "trick of the trade"; something for you to learn and use in your own assessments — when you get to them. Here, let me show you. Watch closely at what I do."

I flinch as the Registrar touches my right nipple. He's quick to note my reaction and smiles evilly as he comments, "My! My! We are touchy, aren't we?"

I shudder with revulsion as he draws an imaginary line across my chest from my right nipple to my left one and another two lines down from both nipples to converge at my navel. As he does so, he also inserts his finger into my navel to test its depth and soundness.

"Tell me, Jason. How good are you at geometry? Can you tell me what shape I drew on the slave's chest and belly?

"That's easy, Mr Humboldt," Jason announces triumphantly. "It's a triangle."

"Correct, Jason. Now can you tell me what type of triangle?"

"UM! I'm not sure." Jason answers hesitantly.

"It's an equilateral triangle, Jason. A triangle that has all three sides the same length. Now you look at the slave and draw an imaginary triangle on his chest and belly. You'll need to visualise it. Better still; use your finger to trace it out."

Humiliated, I stand motionless while this youth — three years my junior — uses my torso as a drawing board. But at he traces out the triangle, I do feel a little shiver of pleasure run through my body. Jason feels it, too, and his eyes widen to reflect his new-found sense of pleasure at the warm feel of my naked body.

"That's very good, Jason. Now let me explain. Usually, when a slave's body displays the dimensions of an equilateral triangle as this one does, it means that the rest of him is most likely in proportion; not always but mostly. I wager, as we measure him we'll discover his body is as near to perfect as it can be."

Unnoticed, the two older guards had broken off their conversation to watch and listen as the Registrar imparts this little gem of wisdom to the impressionable Jason.

"I didn't know that, Mr Humboldt. Is that a scientific fact?" Harold asks.

"Not as far as I know, Harold. It's just a little knowledge I've picked up from assessing hundreds of slaves over the years," the Registrar boasts. "But I will say that some artists and sculptors did use a system very similar to my theory with their models."

"Well, there you go," Harold exclaims. "You're never too old to learn, are you?"

"What happens now, Mr Humboldt?" Jason asks enthusiastically.

It would seem that touching my nakedness has broken the ice for Jason, I think angrily; an anger that I'm careful not to show. My fear of the guards' straps overwhelms my anger and this fear is the strongest of my emotions.

"We'll weigh him first and then take his measurements, and after that we'll have him up on the bench for his close quarter inspection."

Silently, the Registrar gestures to his slave-assistant who holds me by my right bicep and leads me over to a set of scales. As I step up onto the scales, I'm able to really see the slave for the first time.

It's hard to tell his age as he has been dehumanised; his pale body is completely denuded of all hair. Even his scalp is clean-shaven and gleams white under the bright fluorescent lights of the room. From the texture of his smooth, white skin and the tone of his musculature, I would estimate his age at between thirty-five and forty. Around his neck he wears the iron collar, which is mandatory for all slaves and is similar to the one I'll very shortly have fitted around my own neck. Additionally, his genitals are enclosed by a matching three ringed cinch that thrusts his cock and balls forward in an obscene display as another mark of his servitude. And in his eyes, I see his shame, his pain and suffering, and the hopeless acceptance of his slavery. But it is the other marks of his slavery that horrify me. I refer, of course, to his brands.

On his left flank is the compulsory brownish-red capital letter "S" for slave, and seared into his right pectoral muscle is the state's coat-of-arms under which is written "Property of the State". Immediately opposite, on his left pectoral, he bears the brand NY/02/0432-5.

I'm familiar with the system that sees all publicly owned slaves branded with the state's emblem and a registration number. I've often driven past gangs of slaves employed on public works, and I'm aware that they are so branded. My attitude to this was always one of indifference — the bearers of such brands were only slaves and didn't warrant a second thought on my part. However, this is the first time I've seen one up close and personal, so to speak. The sight of it takes on a new significance for me. It reminds me that as a slave, I'm also required to wear a brand.

As I look at his registration numbers, I know the letters "NY" categorise the type of crime of which the slave was found guilty — though what it is, eludes me, the numerals "02" denote the year of his enslavement, and the next four "0432" is his placement in the order of enslavements for that year. The final numeral "5" is his work classification and indicates the types of duties for which he is suited — in his case, working within the Law Courts.

Suddenly, seeing all this at close range brings home the shocking reality of my own situation. The fear of my own imminent branding causes me to tremble.

The slave senses my distress; as he guides me onto the scales he looks into my face and smiles and gently squeezes my arm in a gesture of support.

I'm unaware of the potential cost to the slave of this action should he be seen doing it. Luckily for him, his gesture goes unnoticed by the Registrar and the guards. Forbidden to speak or fraternise with me, he would, if caught, be given ten strokes of the lash. Yet, he risked this punishment to comfort me. Why?

This is the first — and only — show of compassion I've received in this wretched place. And it comes from a fellow slave. I'm confused. Kindness to a slave is seen as a weakness here, and harsh authority is the order of the day, and this is strictly enforced with "hairy-chested" vigour by the guards and slave-handlers.

I'm overwhelmed by the slave's small gesture of kindness to me. The floodgates of my emotions burst open and from deep within my chest a single sob breaks forth. I now hear myself crying uncontrollably. I fail to notice the slave's startled reaction to this as he steps back and nervously look around at the guards fearful of being blamed for my sudden outburst.

The sound of my distress is broken by two loud "thwacks" as the guard, Craig, applies his strap to my back with the instruction to "SETTLE DOWN!"

I instantly comply with his order and my loud sobbing subsides to a gentle crying. Through my tears, I listen quietly as the Registrar explains my "break-down" to an upset Jason.

"Such behaviour from a new slave is quite normal, Jason. There's nothing for you to get upset over. During their assessments, new slaves react in different ways. Some are silently sullen, some struggle and have to be subdued — that's why you're here … to help in such cases — and others, like this slave, simply cry. It's the sudden realisation that they are no longer free. They know their old lives are over and they are now slaves. In time, you'll become accustomed to this and learn to take it in your stride. However working with slaves does mean you'll need to harden your attitude to them, Jason. A slave responds best to firm handling and harsh discipline. So don't forget that you're ALWAYS in control of them."

"Thank you, Mr Humboldt, for explaining that to me. I am surprised. I've never seen a grown man cry like that before."

"Good heavens, Jason," the Registrar laughs, "he's not a man; he's only a slave. That's another distinction you'll also need to make in your daily work here. Now let's get back to what we were doing, shall we? Be a good lad and check out the scales and tell me how much the slave weighs."

I suppose for a slave, body image is "everything". A slave-owner wishing to buy a slave will naturally look firstly at a slave who has good visual appeal, an attractive body, and a pleasing countenance. Whenever I purchased a slave, the criteria I always set were for strong, muscular bodies free of blemishes and handsome faces. I never wasted time on a slave who was fat, out of condition, or plain looking. I always bought the best that money could buy.

I took great pride in the appearances of my slaves. Those fortunate enough to be chosen by me to serve in my households were every bit as important as the rich furnishings and the expensive art with which I surrounded myself. I am a lover of beauty in all things and my house-slaves enhanced my life. Of course, they were made to train hard to maintain their physical perfection; they started and finished each day with a strenuous workout in the special slave gymnasiums I had purposely built for them. And whenever I could, I looked on as they trained; certainly the stress placed on their sweating, naked bodies never failed to give me an erotic charge.

By contrast, the field and the draft slaves at La Forêt maintained their fitness purely through their labours — there weren't any gymnasiums for them — and my overseers were particularly zealous in their supervision that ensured these slaves "worked hard" to stay in peak condition.

For a slave waiting to be sold at auction, good looks can be the deciding factor in determining the quality of his life. If he is attractive and "appeals" to a buyer, then there is every chance that the next few years of his life will be relatively easy. He would, no doubt, be used by his master for pleasure for as long as he retains this appeal. Inevitably, as he grows older, his master will lose interest in him, and he'll be relegated to the more menial levels of slavery.

This, then, is the prospect that confronts me as I'm weighed and measured. Past experience tells me that I do have the visual appeal that masters look for in their slaves. Again, without conceit or boastfulness, I know that I present well, and should I ever be sold, I'm aware that I would attract much interest among the prospective buyers bidding for me.

But my body is manufactured and my fitness is an illusion; all carefully crafted by me within my private gymnasiums. As the Registrar so expertly noted earlier, I am gym-honed and not work-hardened.

However, I'm not to be sold. My new master has decided that I'm to be sent into the fields at La Forêt to work — a fate that both appalls and terrifies me. Here my body will be conditioned by hard physical labour and my fitness maintained under the whips of my former overseers.

For the next few minutes I stand humiliated and defeated as I am weighed and measured like a prized animal. This dehumanising of me continues as my bodily measurements are taken by the slave-assistant and relayed to the Registrar for inclusion in the 'certificate of ownership' that will shortly be issued to Guy Maratier confirming his ownership of me. It is a bitter pill for me to swallow, and I weep tears of self-pity.

Finally, after I'd been measured and weighed, the Registrar now orders me to display and explains to Jason that the next part of my assessment is among the most important.

"An important part of an examination of a slave is an inspection of his genitalia. We need to establish his soundness and good health in that area of his body. As with the other slave, this slave's master could decide to breed from him. Now watch closely, Jason, as I'm sure it won't be too long before you're required to do this for yourself."

I see Jason move in closer to me; he watches as the Registrar takes my cock in his hands and strips back the foreskin along the shaft. Desperately, I will myself not to respond to his touch and any inclination to do so is soon lost by his comment that. "No doubt, the slave's new master will have him skinned."

"What does skinning mean, Mr Humboldt?" Jason asks, innocently unaware of the jargon used among both slavers and handlers.

"It's a euphemism for circumcision, Jason. It's something that is required to be done to all slaves. You do know about circumcision, don't you, Jason?"

"Yes, of course, Mr Humboldt. But I've never seen it done."

"Well, don't worry about that, Jason. As a slave handler, I expect you soon will. Isn't that so?" Cyrus laughingly asks the two older guards.

"Indeed, he will, Mr Humboldt," Harold replies.

As a slave-owner, I was well aware that slaves are routinely skinned. There are two reasons for this. Firstly, the foreskin is the mark of a free-man and a circumcised cock, along with the brands and the collar, are the visible signs of a slave. Consequently, no self-respecting owner would allow his slaves to keep their foreskins.

When I first bought Norge he had his foreskin intact and I was intrigued by it — so much so, that I'd allowed him to retain it temporarily. However, only last month, when the novelty of a slave with a foreskin lost its appeal for me, I had my vet skin him. Now there is the sickening realisation of the inevitability of my own skinning.

The second point of view for skinning a slave — and the one my former grandfather always adhered to — has to do with the health and cleanliness of the slave. Grandad felt that a foreskin on a slave was too difficult to keep "clean", and that it served no useful purpose for a slave to retain it. Therefore, it was better to remove it altogether; a practice I continued with after his death. Hence all my former slaves are skinned, and this, inevitably, is now to be my fate.

The Registrar continues with his inspection of me, and as he squeezes the cockhead enabling him to test the health of my piss-slit, I feel a stirring deep within my groin. I fight against this and my struggle doesn't go unnoticed by him. I'm ordered to, "Keep it down, boy! Let's save it all for later."

Embarrassed, I struggle to comply. Then turning to Jason, he adds.

"It's important not to get them 'excited' at this stage, Jason. We don't want any unfortunate spillage or leakage at this stage, do we? Do remember, we always save that for when the slave is up on the bench."

He cups my balls in his hands and once more I feel the pressure of his fingers as he feels for any abnormalities. Finally, he is satisfied and gives me a clean "bill of health" and declares to the three guards that I'm very well-endowed. Now he orders me up onto the inspection bench for the final and most humiliating part of my assessment.

"Right you are, then, boy! Let's have you up on the bench on your hands and knees and with your legs spread wide."

I hasten to comply, and as I scramble up onto the bench, I notice the two older guards move in closer — no doubt eager to witness my ultimate degradation as my "capability" is tested by the slave-assistant.

To be continued...

Posted: 06/14/11