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 10
"Welcomed into the Household"

Suddenly, standing here fastened to Norge, everything takes on a surreal quality. So much has happened to me this afternoon that my mind still isn't able to take it all in. I am lost in a blur of bewilderment and disbelief; a fog of confusion and fear. Everything has been taken from me- EVERYTHING! My fortune, my freedom, my name and I now stand as a naked slave in the courtyard of the home that was mine just six hours ago; the home that now belongs to my Master, Guy Maratier.

Fearfully, I watch the activity going on around me. Grouped in front of me are the fifteen household slaves who had so recently belonged to me and whose ranks I have now joined. No doubt they too are confused and bewildered by this sudden turn of events. Their old master now stands before them as a naked slave and like them he wears the collar and brand of their servitude. And probably they wait in fearful anticipation of our new Master's attitude towards them; no doubt wondering in what ways their lives will change?

They haven't been dismissed and shuffle uncomfortably as Cato orders four of them to bring out the whipping bench from within the stables. Nervously, they hurry to do his bidding. The fifteen slaves have been witnesses to these events before. Indeed, at my instigation, all of them have been unwilling participants in the grim ritual about to be played out before them.

Acting on Cato's suggestion, my Master has commanded him to initiate me into the household. It has been a long held Barrois tradition that a newly purchased slave receives ten strokes of the cane immediately upon his arrival back from the slave-market. This is done to establish his new master's authority over the unfortunate slave and to serve as a practical warning of the punishment given for any infraction of the rules governing his behaviour. It is a practice I'd enthusiastically and thoughtlessly continued after my grandfather's death and it is ironic that I'm now to fall a victim to my own cruelty.

Mine however is to be a special welcome. Instead of the usual ten strokes, my Master has doubled that number and I'm to receive twenty strokes with the new and improved WHIPPISTIK that I had recently issued to Cato for use on my slaves. I've already felt its cruel sting as I was driven from the court-room to the Assessor's Office only a few short hours ago. My balls still ache with the wasplike pain it caused me and I remember my futile attempt to crawl away from the WHIPPISTIK as the slave-handlers drove me on my hands and knees down the long passage. Now I'm to feel its fiery fury once more as Cato applies this new cane to my body.

I know what to expect from Cato. He's never held back when caning a slave and each stroke is delivered with a powerful swipe of his muscular, whipping arm. How many times have I listened to the sibilant swish of his cane travelling through the resistant air? How many times have I heard the loud thwack as it lands on its victim's exposed body? And how many times have I closed my ears and heart to the slave's cries of pain and pleas for leniency? They are far too many for me to recall with certainty.

Cato takes his time in caning a slave. He never hurries the punishment. I recall him telling me once, that a caning should be a learning experience for a slave and that he needs to feel his punishment to better understand it. Therefore, Cato administers each caning or paddling - and paddling is another story - very slowly and methodically. Between each stroke, Cato pauses long enough for the slave to savour his pain and to vocalise his suffering and he very deliberately avoids the cane striking the same spot twice. This is what now confronts me and I'm terrified.

I worry about my Master's scarcely concealed hatred of me and this, no doubt is the reason why he's decided to double the number of cane strokes I'm to receive. During the course of the afternoon's events, it became clear to me that he carries a great hatred for the Barrois name. With some justification, he blames them for the poverty of his former life and for the suffering of his grandmother, Charlotte Maratier. I'm not to know that his hatred of the Barrois family was nurtured by Charlotte's unrelenting bitterness directed at her brother - my late grandfather - and me. But as the last to bear the Barrois name, all that pent-up hatred and bitterness is now centred on me. I have been brought undone by them and I'm to pay a high price in the Maratier's desire for revenge. I sense Guy Maratier's intention is to make me live every moment of my slavery and instinctively I know I can't expect any mercy or forgiveness from either him or his grandmother.

My Master has walked to the entrance of the court-yard to farewell the two court officials sent by Judge Matthews to ensure the smooth transition of the ownership of my former property into his possession. He has left me in the presence of my former lawyer, Simon Barrow, who has elected to stay and watch my imminent introductory caning.

Simon stands before me and attempts to goad me into a re-action with his insults and taunts. Perhaps he hopes I will respond which of course as slave I'm not allowed to do; any retort from me would see an automatic increase in the number of strokes I'm to receive. Not wishing to add to my impending caning, I remain silent with my head bowed. Yet the bitterness my enforced humility and acceptance of his torments seethes within me and I feel the bile rise in my throat.

I'm genuinely surprised at his animosity towards me; it shows in his eyes and in his barely concealed pleasure at seeing me as a slave. My dealings with him had always been cordial - or so I thought - and I'd never been discourteous to him. It's true our relationship had been conducted on a purely professional basis and I never looked on him as a friend but is that sufficient grounds for his now vehement satisfaction at my plight. I don't understand why this is so and yet, so many times today, I have been exposed to similar feelings of hostility. This makes me wonder about myself.

In my former life, I'd received the respect and courtesy that my Barrois birth-right demanded. It's true that I'd not cultivated many friends among the city's elite and I'd remained aloof from the business intrigues of those I was forced to deal with. His was done by design. It was the policy of my grandfather and I'd simply followed his example. But I was always courteous and scrupulously honest in all my dealings. To my knowledge I'd never knowingly hurt anyone nor cheated them and as far as I knew I hadn't any enemies. But this afternoon, I have seen so much satisfaction expressed at my downfall and felt so much hostility that I'm forced to ask myself - WHY?

It would appear that I'm universally hated by reason of my slave birth. Added to the trauma of now finding myself a slave, I'm shattered by this hostility. I wonder what I have done to deserve all that is happening to me.

Norge stands quietly alongside of me watching as the whipping bench is carried out from the stables. Is he reliving the occasion when he was welcomed into my household? Does he relive the moments and the pain of his caning? Will he take satisfaction in seeing me on the receiving end? I ask myself - can I blame him if he does.

As I look at Norge and the other slaves, I'm deeply affected by my past treatment of them. My indifference to their pain and suffering shames me and once more my eyes fill with tears of guilt. Norge hears my gentle crying and puzzled by this, he looks at me. For the second time this afternoon, I sob out my heartfelt apology to him. I hear myself saying,

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

His eyes widen in surprise and he looks searchingly into my face. Perhaps, just perhaps, he recognises my genuine remorse.

Deep within me I know my apology is useless. It changes nothing and it doesn't undo the past. Norge is still a slave and will remain so for the remainder of his days. Of course, I'm not to blame for the fact that he is a slave. The courts made him so. But I did take advantage of that and bought him for my own selfish purposes. I had thoughtlessly humiliated him by my public inspection and purchase of him at the sale-yards, my very public use of him as naked pony and I had gone on to shame him by using him for my own sexual gratification without regard to his own inclinations. Finally, I had degraded his manhood by skinning him. And indeed I'd never considered these things. He was a slave - my property - and I was his master and my needs were paramount. Now as a new slave, I recognise my thoughtless cruelty and lack of compassion not only for Norge but for all my former slaves.

My apology to Norge is heartfelt but I know I'm not entitled to his forgiveness.
Nor do I expect it.

I continue to ignore Simon Barrow's taunts and turn my thoughts to my impending caning. Acting under Cato's direction, the four slaves have placed the whipping bench in the centre of the courtyard and I watch as he carefully checks and positions the leather straps that he'll use to fasten me in place.

In the past the whipping bench has never concerned me overly; now it takes on the appearance of a grim instrument of torture. It is made all the more fearsome by the knowledge that I'm to be fastened to it and caned.

In appearance it resembles a workman's bench and stands at waist height. Its operation is simple. The victim is made to stand at one end which is heavily padded to protect his genitals when he is bent double and then his ankles are fastened to the upright legs. Once his ankles are secured, he is made to bend at the waist and rest his upper body, face down on the bench top. Then his arms are stretched out to their full length before him and fastened by leather straps. Effectively, with his body stretched taut and his buttocks at the correct height and angle, the slave is now ready for chastisement. The cane can now be applied to his shoulders, lower back, ass or the back of his thighs; the choice for this rests with his master.

Being made of solid timber, there isn't any give and the slave feels the full force of the blow delivered to his body. This particular horse has been in service from long before I was born and it has seen much service. Its timber top has been worn smooth by the friction of countless, naked bodies and polished to a dark patina by the fear induced sweat of its many victims.

Fearfully, I look on as Cato limbers up by swinging his cane through the air. He always does this before a caning; it is, as he once told me, "to loosen up his whipping arm". As he swipes it through the air, I'm alarmed by the noise this new cane makes; it is so unlike the normal cane which makes a soft, hissing sound as it travels through the air. By comparison, the new WHIPPISTIK has been designed to make a loud, whining noise as it moves downwards to its victim's body.

The manufacturers of the WHIPPISTIK use this noise as a feature in the advertising and selling of their product. In their words the high-pitched whine of the WHIPPISTIK adds an extra sensory dimension to the chastisement of a slave and helps focus his mind on his punishment.

I have heard this noise before but I had never concerned myself with the effect it has upon the slave undergoing a caning. Now it terrifies me. With my caning only minutes away, I can well imagine how a slave feels as he listens to the frightening sound of the cane descending to land on his body. With each swipe of Cato's arm, I cringe in trepidation. Simon Barrow smilingly notes my distress and taunts me,

"Just think, boy! You're about to get your first caning as a slave. I hope it hurts like hell and I hope it's the first of many."

Such hatred!

The sound of the cane attracts my Master's attention. He takes his leave of the court officials and hurries over to where Cato is practising his technique.
Simon now loses interest in me and joins them. I watch as Cato explains the features of the cane to his new Master and Simon. Both show a keen interest in it and after a lesson in its use; they take turns in swishing it through the air.

Cato's limbering up has unsettled the watching household slaves who nervously shuffle their feet as they wait. They know what is to happen. After all they have all been in the same position as I now find myself. As their former Master, I know that the caning of a fellow slave unsettles them. Obviously, they are happy that it is another slave - and not them - who is being caned but contrary to public perceptions, slaves are capable of emotions and do feel one another's suffering. I've always felt forcing slaves to witness a fellow slave's chastisement is good for them. It has a salutatory effect upon them and in the days immediately following a caning, their behaviour is exemplary; they become diligent, conscientious, courteous and eager to please. From a master's perspective, I'd always felt this was good for my slaves and contributed enormously to the peace and harmony of my household.

But now my views have changed; I'm the slave who is to serve as an example to them and whose caning will ensure their continuing good behaviour.

My state of mind is fragile to say the least. The cataclysmic events of the afternoon have been devastating and I have this awful sense of vulnerability. For the first time in my life I have no-one or anything to cling to; everything has been stripped away from me and I have an overpowering sense of loneliness. Quite obviously, I'm now reviled by all free men and despised by my new slave brethren. Through my tears of self-pity, I wonder if it will always be like this.

Then unexpectedly, I see Norge looking at me; what is that look I see in his eyes. Is it pity? Perhaps in recalling his own enslavement, he does feel some small measure of sympathy for me. Then he smiles encouragingly and for the second time today, I draw comfort from a fellow slave; I fondly recall the gentle touch of the assessor's slave as he helped me up onto the scales.

My gratitude for Norge's unexpected gesture is overwhelming. Am I entitled to read into it his forgiveness for the wrongs I have done him? Suddenly my master/slave fondness for Norge begins to take on a new dimension. Where it will take me is unclear. I just know that now I see Norge through very different eyes to those of the former Lucien Barrois.

I draw strength from Norge's smile and I feel I can confront whatever awaits me. But as my Master, accompanied by Simon Barrow and Cato walk toward me I begin to quake with fear for I know they have come to take me to the whipping bench. I try not to show my fear and stand erect with my head bowed. Simon is the first to speak.

"Well Guy! It looks as though you've scored yourself a prime slave with Rafe. Do you mind if I inspect him?"

"No, not at all Simon. Be my guest."

Again I detect eagerness in my Master's answer. He appears happy to show me off to whoever asks. I surmise this is yet another way to further humiliate me.

I stand quietly as my former lawyer slowly moves his hands down over my chest and cruelly pinches my nipples.

"He's a bit hairy," Simon comments as he ruffles my chest hair, "which suits him. Personally I like a slave with a bit of hair on his body. Are you going to keep it that way or shave him, Guy?"

"He'll keep his body hair for the time being but eventually he's to lose it. I'm taking him out to La Forêt for six months and I'm not sure whether the field slaves there are smooth or natural. So I'll wait and see what happens when we get there. But personally I think slaves look better with smooth bodies and when he returns from his stint at La Forêt, he'll be kept smooth like all my other house slaves. That is the tradition isn't it, Cato? That all the house slaves are kept smooth?"

"Yes, Master. Both my former Masters insisted their slaves have smooth bodies and as you can see all your household slaves are kept that way. They shave their bodies daily. What do you want done with Rafe, Master?"

"For now Cato, he's to have just a slave haircut. As soon as we are done with his caning, I want Rafe attended to. He's to lose those long curls and be sure you crop his hair close to the skull the same as the rest of the slaves. "

"Very well, Master. I'll see to it myself."

"Oh and Cato! I see all my other slaves wear cinches around their genitals. Make sure that Rafe is similarly dressed will you?"

"Yes Master."

Simon moves his hands down over my belly and takes my cock in his hands. However his attempts at bringing me to life are fruitless; I remain unmoved. My fear is greater than my desire.

"That's disappointing. I can't seem to get his prick up."

"I'm not too concerned about that, Simon." My master laughingly replies to Simon's complaint about me, "I guess if you were to about to be caned, you'd have a limp dick too. Actually he and the pony put on a very good show for my new neighbours a short while ago. I've got to say I was most impressed with both of them."

Losing interest in my cock, Simon now examines me from behind; he slides his hands from the saddle of my shoulders down over my back to my ass where he pauses ostensibly to judge the firmness and strength of my buttocks. But his hands tell me this isn't the true reason for showing such interest in this part of my anatomy. I'm very much aware that his hands are fondling and caressing me. Instinctively, I know his interest in me is sexual.

I'm surprised at this sudden revelation. Simon and I had associated with one another for several years - admittedly it was always on the basis of business - and nothing he'd ever said or done had indicated that he enjoyed sex with a male. The thought flashes through my mind that had I known or suspected this, my attitude towards him might have been different. Aged somewhere about thirty, he is an extremely handsome man with an impressive physique which he usually highlights by wearing tight-fitting jeans and shirts. Ironically, several times over the years, I'd found myself lustfully assessing his body and regrettably, I never did get to see him naked. I assumed he was heterosexual and I respected that. He obviously assumed the same about me. He kept his secret well as he wouldn't have wanted to reveal his true inclination to me for fear of any prejudice on my part thus jeopardising our business arrangements. Now that I'm a slave, he need have no such worries and with my Master's permission, he is free to submit me to the most humiliating of inspections.

"The slave's got a cute ass," he compliments my Master, "well-rounded, not overly large and quite hard."

"You're the second to comment on it." My Master replies, "The old, retired major living next door described it as "meaty" whatever that means. I must confess I'm not an expert on the subject. And now Simon, if you've finished with your inspection of him, I think it's time the slave had his caning."

Hearing my Master's words, my earlier resolve to stoically confront whatever happens to me crumples and I hear myself pleading with Guy Maratier.

"Please Master. Please don't cane me. Master, I'll do whatever you want. I'll be good, Master."

As I hear my plaintive pleas, I am sickened at my easy capitulation. I have gone from my self-assurance of just a few hours ago to the whining, begging slave that I now am. But I don't care. My fear of the cane outweighs my self-respect and I continue to beg as Cato unfastens me from the cart.

"Please Master; you don't have to do this. I'll do whatever I'm told. PLEASE MASTER! PLEASE!"

My pleas go unanswered. Nothing will save me from my Master's need for revenge or from Cato's strong arm and cane. But then how many times have I listened to a slave begging not to be punished and on every occasion I had closed my ears to his pleas for mercy. Why then should I expect to be spared?

I resist Cato's attempts to lead me to the whipping bench. As he pulls me forward by the chain attached to my collar I pull back and we are engaged in a tug-of-war. But it is a battle that I must lose.

Cato has the advantage over me; he is bigger, heavier and stronger and with my wrists still fastened to the back of my neck collar I am powerless to use my arms. All my efforts place a great strain on my neck muscles and I'm forced to yield. As Cato continues to tug at my neck chain I slowly give ground. But I continue to resist and in a final, desperate but futile action, I throw myself to the ground.

Exasperated, Cato calls forward two, burly slaves from the watching group and orders them to haul me to the waiting bench. I am no match for them and with one on either side of me; I'm quickly dragged over to the bench and thrown face downwards on to its hard, unyielding surface. Cato wastes no time in attempting to tie me down. As the two slaves battle to hold my upper body down on the bench, I continue to struggle and lash out at Cato with my feet as he tries to pull my legs apart. The fight however is to prove uneven and I'm no match for Cato and the two slaves. Nevertheless I continue to kick out with my feet and I hear Cato's angry call for further assistance.

"Ben, get over here and hold his leg steady."

I feel my former body slave, Ben's hands on my left leg holding it steady as Cato tightly fastens the leather strap around my left ankle. With that leg strapped into place, it's very easy for Ben to hold my other leg still as Cato fastens the strap around its ankle.

Now that my legs are immobilised and my torso held down by the two slaves, it's a simple matter for Cato to release my arms, one at a time, and have Ben hold them out full length in front of my head while he fastens the straps around my wrists. Cato spitefully pulls the wrist-straps tight and hisses into my ear.

"You'll pay dearly for that boy. I was going to go easy on you but now you'll feel the full fury of my cane on your ass."

These words are spoken to me by the man who just this morning had bowed his head to me and called me "Master".

I'm to learn another bitter lesson; one that will stay with me through the long years of my slavery; that a slave's defiance is useless. A slave may protest if he's foolish enough to do so. But he can NEVER win. The upper hand always remains with the Master and his agents. As I former master I should have known this. But it wasn't defiance that made me struggle against Cato. It is the indescribable fear that churns my stomach and causes my heart to pound within my chest.

Cato and his helpers stand back from the bench and wait for Guy Maratier's instructions. I'm now hogtied and ready for my caning. My upper body is stretched taut and my legs are splayed wide open. Futilely, I struggle in my restraints but my body movements are now reduced to the nervous twitching of my muscles as I await my chastisement.

In the cooling air of the early evening, I feel a sudden chill and realise I'm perspiring copiously. The bench top feels wet beneath my chest and belly and sweat trickles down the sides of my body to moisten and stain the bench's surface; I'm adding my essence to that of all the other slaves who have lain and suffered here.

I'm now displaying the signs of my panic as my heart beats wildly within me and my lungs feel as though they are about to burst. There is a roaring in my ears and I'm having difficulty in breathing; desperately I gulp air though my widely opened mouth as though I'm hyperventilating. My chest heaves from my exertions and the nerves in my stomach muscles flutter. And I'm shamefully aware that, with my legs spread wide, the most intimate and private part of my body - my anus - is open for inspection. I feel the quick opening and closing of my sphincter as its contractions keep time with my rapid breathing; the sensitive tissue surrounding it is tickled and teased by the slow flow of my sweat as it trickles down through the valley of my ass-crack to my legs. Totally immobilised, I'm acutely aware of my complete helplessness and my utter vulnerability.

Then suddenly I feel a hand pressing down firmly on the top of my ass as another hand soothingly strokes my back much as one would with a frightened animal. Gradually, my panic eases, my heartbeats slow down and my breathing returns to normal. I turn my head to see who it is that has such a calming effect on me and see my Master standing at my side; they are his hands on my body.

Idiotically, the thought races through my mind that by this simple gesture - this placing of his hands on my naked body - he is claiming me as his new property. I'm yet to wear his personal brand but his hands have symbolically marked me as his own.

Then, with his hand still resting atop my ass, he reaches between my legs searching for my cock and balls. I gasp as he none too gently pulls them back between my legs and cradles them in his cupped hand. Nervously, I wait as he examines my genitals. I feel the skin of my scrotum stretched, each ball rolled between his forefinger and thumb and the stripping back of my foreskin from the head of my cock. I ask myself - is he genuinely evaluating his new property or is this yet another form of humiliation he's subjecting me to? Either way the effect upon me is the same. I'm degraded by it. By this very action, I realise that I'm owned property and that my body is no longer my own. Eventually, he's satisfied and playfully pats my ass much as one does with a pet animal. By doing this my Master dehumanises me and reduces me to the level of a domestic beast-of-burden. He speaks directly to me.

"That's a good pair of knockers you've got there, Rafe. But let's just tuck them back under out of the way of the cane. We don't want them damaged do we?"

At this point, as he tucks my package back under me, I feel my new sense of slave worthlessness. His hands demean me; his touch is more degrading than the slave collar around my neck and more shameful than my new brand.

I realise that my caning is imminent and once more my fear causes me to beg for mercy.

"Please Master. Please." I hear my plaintive pleading, "Please Master."

With my head turned sideways, I look back along the bench at my Master and Cato who stand directly behind me. My eyes are wide open with animal-like fright.

"You ordered twenty strokes, Master. Is that correct? Where on the slave do you want me to place them?"

"That's right, Cato. Twenty strokes on his ass. He's to receive ten on each cheek. Can that be done without interfering with his brand?"

"Yes Master. That's not a problem."

"Oh! And Cato after you've finished with that he's to receive another two strokes to the back of his thighs as punishment for his bad behaviour. He's to learn that I won't accept such behaviour from a slave."

This increase to twenty-two strokes of the cane panics me and I begin to shout noisily and I struggle uselessly to free myself from my restraints. I hear my Master instruction to Cato.

"Increase that to three strokes, Cato."

Then, as I continue to struggle I hear "Make it four, Cato."

Quickly it sinks into my mind that this is an uneven contest of wills and one which I'm doomed to lose. It is only after my punishment has been increased by an additional five strokes of the cane that I admit defeat and lie still.

My Master chides me on both my behaviour and foolishness.

"That was foolish of you Rafe. Your bad behaviour has earned you a further five strokes. You of all people should know a slave can never win out over his master. As a new slave there are only two options open to you. To accept your new status and make things as easy as possible for yourself or to continue to struggle and have your rebelliousness whipped out of you. And make no mistake; I won't hesitate to have you flogged if you decide to defy me or my overseers. It's your choice. I suggest you think about it as Cato canes you."

Guy Maratier's words disturb me and the frightening reality is that what he said to me is true. I recognise the futility of further struggle and know there isn't any other option but to submit to his will. Shaking with emotion -or is it fear -I once more beg for his leniency.

"Master. I'm sorry. It wasn't rebelliousness that made me struggle, Master. It was fear of Cato's cane. Please Master, don't punish me. PLEASE!"

"I'm glad to know it was fear and not defiance that caused you to act up, Rafe. But as a slave you need to understand that troublesome behaviour or a bad attitude will always be rewarded with either the cane or the whip and there can be no leniency for you on this occasion. Also Cato tells me it is a long standing practice that all new slaves are caned on their arrival here and I can't make an exception in your case. So let's get it over and done with shall we. Then we can all move on. CATO! Are you ready?"

This is it. There is to be no last minute reprieve for me. As I brace myself for Cato's onslaught on my body, I begin to sob. My head is turned towards the watching house slaves and I see both Norge and Ben standing in the front row. I am unaware that Norge had been unharnessed and placed among the other slaves; this must have happened amid the tumult of my outburst. Shamefaced, I turn away from them; I don't want to see their satisfaction at my suffering. I tense my body and wait. Then, I hear a familiar voice; it is Major Swanston from next door.

"Forgive my intrusion, Guy. But I heard all the commotion and shouting and thought I should just check to see all is going well with you."

"Thank you for your concern, Major. But everything is in order. The shouting you heard was coming from Rafe. He's not too keen about being caned as you can imagine."

"Ah! It seems I've timed my visit at the right time. Do you mind if I stay and watch?"

"Not at all, major. You're most welcome. CARRY ON CATO!"

Now my world is about to explode into one of pain as Cato takes up his position behind me. Once more I tense my body in anticipation of my coming ordeal.

Cato doesn't hurry. He stands behind me and limbers up. Is he playing a game with me such as a cat does when toying with a captive mouse? From behind me, I hear the fearful whine of the cane and several times I flinch and cry out in false anticipation of its agonising sting. After several such false alarms, I relax my body. Then I hear the sinister whine of the cane followed by a resoundingly loud thwack as the WHIPPISTIK cuts across the left cheek of my upturned buttocks. Momentarily I feel nothing. In the split second that it takes for my brain to register my pain I'm suspended in a limbo of waiting. Then, as the excruciating pain explodes throughout my body I hear my detached scream of outrage and pain. I cry out to my Master for mercy.

"OH! Master, Please, Master?"

Then once more I hear the dreadful whine of Cato's cane and feel the awful pain. Again and again this is repeated. The advertising claim of the manufacturers for the WHIPPISTIK is accurate and I can vouch for its veracity. There is an extra sensory dimension that adds to my suffering. I fearfully listen for the sinister whine which I know will be followed immediately by indescribable pain. And Cato -true to his earlier threat - doesn't hold back in his use of the cane; I feel the full force of his strong arm in each stroke. Now I'm reduced to an incoherent, sobbing mess. My pain racked body screams for relief and my voice grows hoarse as I beg for mercy.

I'm finding there are two aspects to my chastisement; the physical and the emotional. By far the physical aspect is the most obvious. After all, I'm very much feeling my pain and my audience of slaves and free men are able to see and hear my suffering. But the emotional aspect is less obvious; it is buried within me. It is deeply personal and it must be endured by me alone.

I can best describe my emotions as raw. At this moment in time, they are as lacerated as I imagine my ass is fast becoming. For the first time in my life, I can see the awful inhumanity of treating a slave in the manner in which I'm being punished. Made naked, immobilised and caned at the behest of my Master, I am reduced to nothingness. It strips me of my humanity, deprives me of my individuality and proves my worthlessness as a person. My only worth is now measured in my capacity to serve my Master. It lies in the strength of my body to work for his enrichment and in the emptying of my mind to all else but his needs. I am now at the lowest point of my life and it is at this moment that I begin to accept my slavery. The unendurable pain of the cane has made it so.

The awful pain I'm suffering convinces me to do everything within my power to avoid such punishment in the future. It is true; I've learnt that these introductory canings for a new slave DO stamp the Master's authority on him and in Major Swanston's words the whip and the cane "exercise a slave's mind wonderfully". I now know that there are only two goals in my new life as a slave - to serve my Master loyally and obediently and to do all within my power to avoid his displeasure.

I have capitulated. I am now a slave in every sense of the word and what surprises me is that this has happened within the space of one afternoon.

Cato continues to rain blows upon me. My chastisement has taken on a rhythmic pattern -one of the whine of the cane, the loud thwack as it lands on my exposed body only to be followed by my cry of pain. They are the only sounds to break the early evening silence. Cato has settled into a routine of deliberately taking aim at a particular spot, delivering the stroke to it with the full force of his considerable strength and the inevitable long pause between strokes to allow me to savour the latest one.

I haven't been counting the strokes; my pain prevents me from doing so. But as Cato changes his stance and takes aim at my right buttock, I know I have receive ten of my original twenty strokes. How long has it taken Cato to deliver these first ten strokes? I don't know. Time seems to have slowed down for me and I'm only aware of my fear and suffering. Once more in desperation, I beg my Master for leniency. His continuing silence tells me there isn't to be any.

Now I feel Cato's cane cut into my right buttock for the first time. Nine more times this is repeated and nine more times I cry out my anguish. Then mercifully it stops. But I know my reprieve is to be brief for I'm still to receive another five strokes across the back of my thighs.

Through the mist of my tears, I feel a finger painfully tracing out the pattern of the strokes on my rump. I yelp with the distress this causes me but again I'm ignored and the finger continues with its exploration. I turn my head to see who is causing my discomfort and through my pain-filled eyes I see it is my de facto grandfather, Major Swanston.

"I say Guy; this new cane is most effective. I've got to say I'm most impressed with it. This slave won't be sleeping on his back tonight or for quite a few more, I'll wager." He jokes at my expense and adds, "And I don't think he'll be sitting down anytime soon either."

"Any discomfort he feels over the next few days will remind him to behave himself and not to give offence wouldn't you agree major?"

"Most definitely, Guy."

"Good! Cato, please continue."

Now I feel the pain move down into my legs as Cato deliberately and systematically deliver the final five strokes of my punishment. The pain caused is no less intense than the earlier, twenty strokes but the break in between, as the major examined me, has allowed me to gain a little of my composure. These final five strokes are something of an anticlimax when compared to the previous ones. I'm not to know that the real pain will come later as over the next few days I embark on the duties assigned to me by my Master. For some considerable time this pain will serve as a reminder of his annoyance at my behaviour and the price I have paid for displeasing him.

Now the physical part of my ordeal is over but my misery persists. I cry quietly as the house slaves are dismissed and ordered back to their duties. I raise my head and watch as Cato leads Norge to his stall in the stables where he'll be chained up and locked in for the night. Soon the courtyard is empty save for me, my Master, Simon Barrow and Major Swanston. I am the focus of their attention as they talk.

"Well Guy. It would appear that you have broken the slave's spirit." The major proffers his opinion. "It wasn't too hard to do and only good can come from that. It's good for the slave; he'll be happier in serving you and it's good for you to have a slave who's keen to please his Master. "

"Do you really think so, major? Do you think his spirit has been broken?" My Master asks.

"Oh! Most definitely I do. I'm older than you Guy and - no offence intended - but I've had considerably more experience with slaves than you have. One thing I can always tell is when a slave admits defeat and submits to his master. And this one has, most definitely."

"I'm disappointed," my Master laughs, "that it has happened so easily and so quickly. I was looking forward to a longer tussle with him. Damn him!"

"I wouldn't worry on that score, Guy. The slave will still need lots of training and coercion and I'm sure you'll still find enjoyment in bending him to your will. Really, a slave never stops learning. I'm not sure whether it's their natural stupidity or ingrained wilfulness but slaves are always in need of correction."

"I take your point about my lack of experience with slaves, major and that's a situation I intend to correct very quickly. But tell me; if you're correct and Rafe's spirit has been broken - is it always that easy?"

"It depends on the slave, Guy. Some new slaves are very strong willed and resist submitting to their owner's will. These slaves make their own lives and those of their owners extremely difficult. Others are like this slave and just give in. Don't forget that just a few hours ago, Rafe was a free man who'd never done an honest day's work in his life. He'd been spoilt by his doting grandparents and lived a life of ease and luxury. This made him pampered and soft and unable to cope with any real problems that came his way. Why since Jean-Claude Barrois died, he was always seeking my advice. He seemed incapable of making a decision for himself. But that's not all that surprising now that we know he springs from slave stock is it? Confronted with the first, big crisis in his life it is easier for him to simply surrender. No, Rafe doesn't have the will to fight you; it's much simpler for him to submit to you. And now if you'll excuse me it's my dinner time."

As I listened to the major's words I realised he is correct. His assessment of me is true. I don't have the willpower or the resolve to fight against the calamities that have befallen me this afternoon. How can I fight against the establishment that has passed judgement on me and returned me to my rightful place in society? I was born a slave and despite the years I'd lived as a free person, my real destiny is that of a slave. I now accept this fact. I am the slave Rafe and Guy Maratier is my Master.

But for all that it is still a bitter pill for me to swallow.

To be continued...

Posted: 07/01/11