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 8
'Homeward Bound'

For me, this is a road much travelled. How many times have I driven my pony along the broad, tree-lined expanse of this beautiful boulevard to either keep a business appointment in the city centre or to meet up with my friends for some social activity?

Beginning almost on the outskirts of the city as an arterial road, it cuts through the most affluent suburbs — home to the city's rich and famous — before broadening into a shady avenue that ends in a large, majestic square of landscaped gardens marking the heart of the city. Around the perimeter of this square are the gracious, colonial buildings that provide the heartbeat not only of the city but also of the state itself. Located here are the City Hall, the Legislature, the Governor's Mansion and the law courts. In the late afternoon sunlight, the colonial whiteness of these buildings is suffused with a golden glow that provides suitable photo opportunities for the many out-of-town visitors and tourists who have come to admire the beauty of their capital city.

It is an area of the city with which I'm most familiar and one where until only a few hours ago, all doors had been open to me. How many times have I dined at the Governor's Mansion? How many times have those self-important non-entities at city hall and the legislature sought my family's opinion on business matters? Too numerous for me to remember, but then I had been Lucien Barrois. But I am no longer Lucien; now I am the new slave, Rafe.

My fall from grace has been spectacular and already it is the talk of the city. They say good news travels fast but my bad news travelled faster. Within a few minutes of my enslavement, the news had filtered through to city hall and the parliament where I am now the main topic of conversation. Thankfully, I am spared the spite and malice of their comments.

Normally at this late hour the city begins to empty as people finish their work and return to their homes. But that isn't the case today. There is a rumour circulating that shortly my new master, Guy Maratier, is to emerge from the law courts, and it's hoped he'll have me in tow.

People are gathered in noisy groups on the pavement waiting expectantly and talking animatedly about the now infamous "Barrois affair"; all are united in their eagerness to catch a glimpse of the new slave, Rafe. Even people whom I'd always regarded as friends or casual acquaintances are there to witness my humiliation. Among the crowd there are those who whisper darkly that they always suspected something wasn't "quite right" about the young Barrois upstart. Others suggest that my "come-uppance" is long overdue, and it is "well deserved." There isn't one person, it seems, who speaks on my behalf or has a good word to say about me. I am universally rejected and despised. Envy of me has now given way to the satisfaction of seeing an extremely tall poppy cut low, and their spitefulness, disguised as righteous indignation, rules their emotions. I will receive no sympathy from them.

By far, the largest number of spectators has gathered on either side of the closed gates of the courtyard wherein I stand shoulder to shoulder with Norge. I can hear their muffled chatter through the thick, wooden gates, and they will be the first to see me as my Master drives his pony trap out into the square.

Devastated, my body shakes at the thought of my coming ordeal. Norge by contrast is enjoying himself; the smile on his face tells me of his satisfaction at seeing me — his former master — now reduced to the level of a common slave. He, more than anyone else, knows of the humiliation confronting me. He obviously understands the degradation of being forced to run naked in public. The first time I drove him in public … did he feel as I do now? I suspect he did. Now he is accustomed to his enforced nudity and no longer feels any sense of shame. But then, why should he feel shame, as slave-nakedness is his natural state. However, his recollections of that first occasion tell him of my coming shame, and he is eager to expose me to it. He strains into his harness and his movements — like those of a nervous colt — indicate his willingness to be on our way. We now wait for our Master.

I watch as my Master strides across the courtyard towards us. He walks with a new confidence; one gained from his sudden elevation to the riches that had so recently been mine. His shabby clothing is an indication of the poor circumstances of his previous life but he now has a new life of almost limitless wealth at his disposal. I, by contrast, possess nothing and must now depend upon Guy Maratier for the food I eat and a slave's straw-bedding to sleep upon.

He stands in front of us and shamefaced, I lower my eyes to the ground. He ignores me and speaks to Norge.

"Slave! You understand that I'm your new master and that your former master is now the slave tethered alongside you?"

"Yes, Master!"

"Do you have a name?"

"Yes, Master. My name is Norge," he answers in that intriguing Scandinavian accent that I'd always found so attractive.

"That's an unusual name. Why are you called Norge?"

"My former master called me that, Master. He named me after the country of my birth, Master."

"Then I'll allow you to keep it."

"Thank you, Master."

"By the way I have given the slave beside you a new name — from now on he is to be called Rafe. Now, Norge, I take it you know the way home from here?"

"Yes, Master. I have travelled that way many times."

"Good. I understand there's a crowd outside the gates all waiting to catch a glimpse of Rafe. Let's not disappoint them, Norge. I want you to walk slowly through the square so that they all have an opportunity to see him at close range."

"Yes, Master." Norge is barely able to disguise his delight at this further humiliation of me.

At a signal from my Master, the yard slave swings open the two wooden gates leading out into the square, and the muffled murmuring becomes louder and more distinct. As one, the waiting spectators — their curiosity at fever pitch — crane forward and peer through the opening. They jostle one another in their eagerness to catch a first glimpse of me, and I hear their excited shouts of, "There he is", "He's coming", and "They're on the move".

And indeed we are on the move. My Master has climbed into the driver's seat of the cart and instructs Norge to, "Walk on! Remember to walk slowly, now!"

Obediently, Norge strains into his harness and he tries to move forward. I struggle to hold back and it is now a tug of war between the two of us. Norge is eager to walk forward while I, on the other hand, am just as reluctant to move. How long we would have continued in this contest of strength is open to conjecture. I'm not puny and I pride myself on my strength, but Norge is powerfully built and his months of running as a pony have given him a decided edge over me. Nevertheless, my abhorrence at being publicly displayed to the waiting crowd gives me a strength born out of desperation, and our battle of wills continues until eventually our Master looses patience with me and brings his driver's whip into play.

The crack of the whip is followed by the loud "thwack" as it cuts into my ass; it echoes around the enclosed courtyard, and through my scream of outraged pain I hear his instruction to me: "MOVE YOURSELF, Rafe!"

And to the delight of the spectators, he applies the whip to me two more times — one to the shoulders and the second to the back of my thighs. My cries of pain are the cause of much mirth, and I hear the crowd's anonymous comments of, "Serves him right", "He got what he asked for", and the sage-like advice from an older man that I'm a "Wilful animal; his master will need a firm hand to control THAT slave".

I'm now faced with the "no win" choice to either move forward to confront the crowd waiting to see me, or to stand and suffer my Master's whip. I fear the whip more than the crowd, and I docilely fall into step alongside Norge. Moving out through the gateway into the waiting throng, my body glows red with the warm flush of my very public embarrassment.

Suddenly we are surrounded by a crush of people all eager to see me or to touch me. As I feel their hands reaching out to my body, I begin to cry and wonder why I'm being made to suffer like this. In the eyes of these people, I am a "pariah" slave who dared to challenge the status quo and live as a free man, and not just ANY free man, but as the former Lucien Barrois. It doesn't matter that I was blameless; someone must pay for this scandalous effrontery and that someone is me.

My Master is also determined I should suffer. His hatred of the Barrois family for its treatment of the Maratier family is all consuming. And as the last of the Barrois, he has centred all that pent-up hatred on me. Not satisfied with just bringing me down, he is determined that I shall continue to pay a high price. No amount of degradation will ever expiate the Barrois guilt in his eyes, and no amount of humiliation will satisfy his need for revenge. Driving me naked through the streets is his first public shaming of me and it won't be the last.

As Norge pushes forward, the mob clears a path for us. Their closeness means I'm able, not only to hear the congratulations and good wishes that many offer to Guy Maratier on his success, but also the snide remarks and insults directed at me. It seems everyone wishes my Master well but ill will of me.

Slowly, we advance through the square, and with each step my shame grows. I'm conscious of the many cameras being thrust towards me as the out-of-town tourists enthusiastically record my very public disgrace. Though not fully aware of what is happening they nevertheless know that "something" newsworthy is taking place, and they are determined to record it for posterity, or to share with family and friends at home.

My progress through the square is painfully slow and impeded by all those who want a closer look at the renegade slave who'd presumed too much. It seems they all want to play a part in my downfall even if only as spectators. I'll be a "talking point" for the next few weeks as the Governor uses me as a big stick in his bid for re-election. I'll be much discussed by the common folk in the city's clubs and taverns, as well as at the dinner parties of the more elite citizens. But eventually, people will lose interest in me and I'll become largely forgotten and remembered only by my Master and his overseers as I toil in the fields at La Forêt.

Thankfully, we are almost through the crowded square, and the wide tree-lined avenue leading to my former townhouse opens out before us. Hopefully, there will be fewer spectators there to mock me. But my heart sinks as I see a group of unkempt, homeless people gathered at the side of the road waiting for me to pass. As we draw alongside them, they begin to jeer and shout obscenities at me; one even throws an overripe tomato that splatters on my chest allowing its sticky contents to trickle down over my belly. These people are jubilant at my disgrace and rejoice in the fact that I have been dragged down to a level far beneath their own lowly state. My misfortune elevates them and boosts their low self-esteem; it gives them a powerful sense of superiority over me. And they are right, for I am now at the lowest level of society. I can fall no lower.

Passing them, I am shattered to realise they are now my betters and they possess something I don't — freedom. For all their poverty, they are free, while I am a branded slave. Even their shabby, hand-me-downs, charity clothing, marks them as free men and women while my nakedness shows me to be a slave. And as a slave, I must now defer to them; even these — the dregs of the city — are worthy of my respect. Slave etiquette demands that I bow my head in the company of all free men and women, no matter how base they are, and address them as "Sir" or "Ma'am". Failure on my part to show this proper respect to a free person will be "rewarded" with either a mandatory caning or a whipping. This is a lesson I'm yet to learn.

Entering the avenue and with the crowd now thankfully behind us, my Master urges Norge homewards with the command to, "Trot!"

Effortlessly Norge obeys and now increases his speed while I'm left to stumble along as best I can. Inexperienced as I am, it doesn't occur to me to fall into step with Norge and I seem to be "running" against, rather than with, him. My Master shows his exasperation by flicking his whip against my lower back and ordering me to, "Keep in step with Norge, damn you, Rafe!"

Looking downwards, I match my leg movements to those of Norge and soon I am trotting in "left—right—left" unison with him. How much easier it is when we run as one.

There is a comforting anonymity for me as we travel down the busy boulevard. At this time of the day, there are many other pony traps delivering their masters and mistresses to various destinations, and my Master's is just one of many. And in contrast to the mob in the square, we elicit little attention; to the casual observer noticing our passing it could simply be that of a master driving home after purchasing a new slave at the slave market.

Even with the lateness of the afternoon, the sun still shines with intensity, and soon Norge and I are bathed in perspiration. When driving Norge in the past, I'd always enjoyed watching his sweat-stained body in motion. There had been something powerfully erotic in watching the "play" of his magnificent muscles rippling under his sweaty sheen, and this had usually left me in a highly aroused state; so much so that on arriving home, I'd seek out my current favourite from among my pleasure slaves and head to my bedroom for sexual relief.

Now however, as I run alongside of him, I have a new appreciation of the discomfort my thoughtlessness had caused to Norge. My sweat stings my eyes and trickles in slow moving rivulets down my torso and irritates the inflamed, blistering brand on my left flank. With my hands fastened behind me, I'm powerless to ease my distress, and now I begin to understand the great wrong I had done to Norge — and by implication — to all my former slaves. Too late, I feel a new-born sense of remorse.

As we run, I hear the soft patter of our bare feet on the road's surface and the rattling of the carriage's wheels behind us. Norge, of course, is doing all the work. He is the one in harness and is forced to pull the full weight of the trap and our master. I merely have to run alongside him and keep pace with his speed. Even so, I'm finding the going tough. Normally I jog — or should say, I jogged — each day as part of my cardiovascular fitness programme. I'd always set the distance and speed of my jogging to match my current level of performance, but now it is my Master who controls the speed of my running, and he'll decide when I will stop. The choice is no longer mine, and I find this to be irksome.

My Master has discovered the power of the whip; he is enamoured by it and enthusiastically applies it to both of us as he urges us onwards. I feel its wasp-like sting and hear his command to: "Lift your legs, Rafe! Higher, HIGHER!"

Norge, as a trained pony, is running at the required high-stepping gait; I, on the other hand, am not because I don't know how to. All masters and mistresses require their ponies to adopt this unnatural method of running for no other reason than it "looks good". I had always demanded this of my ponies and Norge hadn't been exempted. The overseers at La Forêt had told me that Norge had been slow to learn this skill and had required much training under the whip before he'd gained the proficiency I demanded of him as my personal pony. I was never convinced of this. To my mind, Norge was an intelligent slave, and I suspected his initial reluctance to conform had more to do with his wilfulness rather than an inability to learn. But learn he did, and I was never able to fault him.

Still not satisfied with my performance, my Master exhorts me with both tongue and whip to, "Step higher!" I try hard to obey but fail dismally.

I find running naked to be most uncomfortable. My chest heaves with the exertion of my running, and the constant pounding of my feet on the road's hard surface jars the muscles of my already aching legs. But these are the least of my worries; without any support, my low hanging balls bounce up and down causing them to ache dully and embarrassingly, my cock "flip-flops" from side to side. I now understand why a pony's genitals are cinched; it does keep everything in place while he runs. A sideways glance at Norge show that his are tightly bundled together and that his cock is rampantly erect. I'm not surprised. Placing him in harness always has this effect upon him, and it was his prominent displays that had endeared him to me and made him the current favourite of my stables.

This close proximity to Norge unsettles me. The heady aroma of his sweat and the earthy smell of his body excite me as always. I am sexually attracted to his beautiful body and as his owner I had often exercised my right to fuck him. His resentment of this and his inability to prevent it had excited me to such an extent that I mostly had him lie on his back as I used him; the look of suppressed anger and impotent outrage as I thrust into him only served to empower me and added to my enjoyment of him.

Now I'm a slave and I wonder if I'm to be similarly abused by my new Master. Will Guy Maratier exercise his right to — in the words of that very descriptive euphemism —"take the cherry" of his new slave. If he chooses to do so, then it will be a first for me. Perhaps I'm to feel the same shame and degradation to which I'd so thoughtlessly subjected Norge.

Suddenly, I tire and, stumbling, I cause Norge to break step. My Master angrily brings his whip into play and I feel the cruel bite as it cuts into my naked flesh. I don't know how many times I feel the lash; its torment overwhelms my senses and I'm only aware of my Master's angry admonishment, "RAFE! Get back into step! NOW, PICK IT UP!"

It is at this moment that I come to realise that I have a hard master who is determined to break my spirit and bend me to his will, and to achieve this he will spare nothing in his treatment of me. He will subject me to the harshest of disciplines and take pleasure in doing so. With this realisation, I acknowledge my defeat, and tears of self-pity flow down my cheeks.

With whip induced desperation I struggle to get back into step with Norge and once more pace myself to his speed. Now it is Norge's turn to feel our Master's impatience and he is whipped to increase his speed. Obviously, our Master is eager to reach his new home.

Running in tandem alongside Norge gives me a new perspective on slavery. When earlier, I'd been confronted by the homeless people; I'd thought it impossible for me to fall any lower than I already had. As a slave, I've been relegated to the level of a beast-of-burden, and I thought that is as low as I can possibly sink. But I am wrong.

This use of a slave as a draft animal demeans him even further. Toiling in the fields has a certain dignity to it; it could almost be described as "honest labour". However, to take a slave, harness him to a carriage, and make him run under the whip is the final indignity and the ultimate subjugation of one man to another's will. In my self-serving ignorance, I had subjected Norge to this outrage, and now, as we run side by side, I am heartily ashamed of my cruel treatment of him.

Too late, I realise this. It has taken my own enslavement to open my eyes to the iniquities of a system that I had enthusiastically supported and benefited from.
In my remorse — or is it self-pity — I cry out my apology.

"Norge! I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Once more I feel the sting of my Master's whip as I obey his instruction to, "QUIETEN DOWN RAFE! Save your wind for running. Keep in step, and maintain your pace."

Norge, puzzled by my outburst, turns his head to momentarily gaze at me. Is that strange look in his eyes the first glimmer of pity for my plight? Perhaps, but I don't think so, for I'm undeserving of it.

We continue on our journey and with each step I take, I become more stressed. I marvel at Norge's remarkable stamina which contrasts so dramatically with my own lack of endurance. He is the one doing all the work and providing the traction for the cart while I am a passenger just along for the run so to speak. Greedily, I gulp air into my tortured lungs and my heart pounds in my heaving chest. My imprisoned arms ache from their enforced inactivity, and my legs quiver like jelly. My new brand throbs with painful intensity, and the "wasp stings" of my Master's whip torment my back and ass. I have reached the limits of my tolerance, and I wonder how I'm to continue at the gruelling pace my Master demands of us. For the first time I'm experiencing what it means to be a slave, and I'm in despair at the inhumanity of it. Then, almost at the point of total collapse, there is sudden relief.

I'm familiar with the area we are now running through; it is the area where I lived. Our Master gives the order for us to slacken our pace and I wonder how he knows we are almost "home".

I'm unaware that in recent times he's frequently visited the area and is familiar with the location of the house that now belongs to him. He has spent many hours daydreaming about today's "homecoming". A homecoming that, for Guy Maratier, is one of sweet revenge, while for the slave, Rafe, it is one of bitterness.

To be continued...

Posted: 06/17/11