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 17
'The Dining-room'

It is said that time is of no consequence to a slave. Time rightly belongs to his Master, and it is he who decides how a slave's time will be put to best use. Whether a slave spends his time in exhaustive, hard labour or simply waits upon his Master's pleasure, he is fulfilling his true destiny — one of serving his owner's wishes. This is an aspect of slavery I'd never previously considered, but it now takes on a new relevance for me as I wait in the dining room for the arrival of my Master and his grandmother.

All four of us are standing in a row with our backs to the wall in the attitudes of subservience demanded of us. We hold our bodies erect with our hands clasped behind backs and resting on our asses. And of course our heads are bowed in humility and our eyes downcast. Our only movements are the steady rise and fall of our chests — the 'in and out' bellowing of our stomachs as we breathe — and the occasional twitching of a distressed muscle that seeks relief from our enforced stillness. The silence is broken by my nervous breathing and Cato's frequent impatient sighs as he paces the room.

I have no idea of how long it is since our Mistress took her leave of Cato and returned to her apartments to dress for dinner. Indeed we don't know if our Master has yet returned from his day's business in town. But the wait has been long — of that I'm sure — and poor Cato is beside himself. He has put so much effort into ensuring his new Master is impressed with his organising skills, and this long wait threatens to wreck his carefully laid plans. He worries that the food, waiting in the kitchen below us, will overcook and spoil but he is powerless to act. He, too, is a slave like the rest of us and he must wait for our Master's arrival.

Normally, Cato wouldn't be in the dining room; he should, by right, be in attendance for the arrival home of the Master. But he noted our new Mistress' declared intention to involve herself in all aspects of the running of the household — an area in which he had reigned supreme until her arrival — and he is worried. He knows she will be a formidable opponent, and he is anxious not to give her any complaints about his abilities at this early stage of what he anticipates will be a difficult relationship.

Nervously, he once more checks the table to re-assure himself that all is in readiness and then he turns his attention to us. He moves along our line tightening the ties of our loincloths and going to great lengths in re-arranging our cocks and balls into what he feels are in acceptable positions. By my reckoning, this is the fourth time he has done so, and the constant attention to my cock has an undesirable effect upon me; my cock springs to life and 'tent-poles' the front of my loincloth. Quick sideways glances at my fellow slaves show they, too, are similarly affected by Cato's attention to them. Cato is dismayed at our unwelcome displays; the last thing he wants is for our Mistress to see four, virile, young slaves showing so lustily. Desperately, he gives each of our cocks a sharp, discouraging rap with the handle of his cane.

Cato isn't the only nervous person in the room. I and my fellow slaves share his anxiety. Although they are used to working in the dining room — and over time, they have grown more confident in doing so — the other three slaves are understandably apprehensive. Even though they had served their Master and Simon Barrow the previous night, they are now charged with serving a new and daunting Mistress for the first time. This prospect can be frightening for any slave, and the risk of giving offence dominates his thoughts.

All three slaves are very conscious of their vulnerability when it comes to serving in the dining room. Even with the best of intentions — and with all due care taken — accidents do happen and, always, the blame rests with the slave responsible. These infractions can consist of simply slopping coffee from a cup into a saucer as it is placed on the table, the spilling of gravy onto the tablecloth and worst of all the unintentional knocking over of a glass of wine. These misdemeanours, while trivial in themselves, are viewed as serious breaches of etiquette by a Master or Mistress and the mandatory punishment for the offending slave is swift and results in a severe caning. Needless to say, slaves who serve as waiters go to extraordinary lengths to prevent such accidents from happening; their fear of the cane makes them just that much more cautious.

My fellow slaves are fully conversant with this; I, on the other hand, am not, and my fear is that much more palpable.

Suddenly the silence is broken by the sound of approaching voices. Cato orders all four of us in the obeisance position as he hurries forward to open the door for our Master and Mistress.

"Good evening, Master. Good evening, Mistress." Cato bows low as Guy and Charlotte Maratier enter.

"Good evening, Cato. I'm sorry to have held up the dinner. I hope that hasn't presented you with a problem?"

"Not at all, Master," Cato lies. "Do you wish to inspect the slaves who are to serve you tonight? It has been a long established tradition of the house for the Master to do so."

"Then let's not break with tradition, Cato. By all means, let us inspect them."

Cato is correct. The inspection of the slaves who were to serve us was a ritual begun by the Barrois family long before my birth. I don't know the reasons for these inspections, and I never queried them. They existed, and so I continued with them when I became Master. Two nights ago, I stood where Guy Maratier now stands and conducted my own inspections. Then it was inconceivable that within forty-eight hours I would stand in a line of slaves and be subject to such an inspection.

An order from Cato has all four of us standing at "display" while our Master inspects us. His examinations of the other slaves are cursory but he subjects me to close scrutiny. As he looks at me, my trembling body betrays my nervousness. He ignores me and speaks to Cato. "How did the slave perform today, Cato? Was he kept busy all day?"

"Yes, Master. The slave surprised me. He applied himself to his work with diligence, and he was kept busy all day."

"Good! And his output — was it sufficient?"

"Moderately so, Master. He's new to hard labour, as you know, and naturally he struggled at times. But the overseer slave who attended him always seemed to spur him on whenever he flagged."

"I hope the overseer wasn't too enthusiastic with his whip. Turn around, Rafe."

I turn around and present my back for my Master's inspection. To say he is displeased at what he sees is an understatement. My back clearly shows evidence of Marv's enthusiasm, and while it is covered in a crisscross pattern of angry, red welts, there is no lasting damage done to me. The stripes I wear are superficial, and my skin hasn't been broken, and within days they will begin to fade and disappear. I wonder about my Master's concern for me; when eventually I'm sent to "La Forêt" the fearsome whips of the overseers will be far more damaging to me than Marv's quirt. But my Master is angry at what he sees. The stripes of the whip on my sun reddened back don't make for a pleasant sight.

"Cato. The slave is a mess. I thought I told you he wasn't to be overly whipped. I thought you were to warn the overseer he was only to use the whip with moderation? Isn't that so, Cato?"

Poor Cato! He is covered in confusion at our Master's questions and a little fearful of his anger.

"Yes, Master. I did warn the overseer as you..."

"Then he disobeyed me. Tomorrow you're to give him ten strokes of the cane, and you're lucky not to be joining him. Cato, I'm most disappointed in you."

The threat that he, too, could be caned, panics Cato. All his carefully laid plans to ingratiate himself into his new Master's good graces have been rendered useless because of me. He's been publicly rebuked by his Master in front of the slaves over whom he has authority and threatened with the same punishment that they are subject to. It's doubtful if a pale-faced Cato notices the looks of undisguised pleasure in the eyes of my fellow slaves. They will carry the story of Cato's "fall from favour" back to the slave quarters, and tonight there will be much whispering among the other slaves.

"You have let me down, Cato — badly!"

"I'm sorry, Master, but if you'll let..."

"No excuses, Cato. I told you the slave wasn't to be over-whipped, and I come home to find him like this. He's not to be returned to the wood-heap tomorrow."

"What would you have me do with him, Master?"

"I noticed two slaves pulling lawnmowers today. Is that an ongoing job?"

"Yes, Master. The lawns are quite extensive, and it is the growing season, so the mowers are kept busy."

"Then tomorrow morning, you're to harness him to a mower, and he's to remain at that job until I say otherwise. You're to make sure his body is coated with lotion to protect him from the sun. Do you understand, Cato?"

"Yes, Master," a chastened Cato answers. My Master's sudden concern for me is puzzling. Only yesterday he'd spelt out his plans for me. Then I was destined to work as a field slave before being trained as a pony, and the treatment of my body would have been far harsher than what I've suffered today. The whips of the overseers would have cut into my back far more viciously than the light whip I'd laboured under today. I would have toiled naked under the fierce heat of the sun, and no measures would be taken to protect me from its harmful rays. So what has changed? Does he have other plans for me?

What is evident is his ever-growing confidence as a slave owner. He has gained the self-assurance of a Master in a remarkably short time. The firmness with which he'd dealt with Cato, and his tone of authority in doing so, is the hallmark of a true Master — one who'll not tolerate any insubordination from a slave.

Waiting silently in the background is his doting grandmother, Charlotte Maratier, who notes this growing confidence with pride. There is great satisfaction in knowing she was instrumental in destroying the Barrois family, forever sullying its once proud name and reducing its last surviving member to the miserable slave known as Rafe, now standing before her. She takes enormous pleasure in the fall of the Barrois family and ascendancy of the Maratier name.

As she looks at the new slave, she wonders what his thoughts are. Does he feel he has reached the depths of despair and degradation, and that he can suffer no more humiliation or pain? She hopes so. If he does think that he has reached rock-bottom, then he is wrong. Her insatiable need for revenge hasn't yet been satisfied. Grimly, she decides the slave, Rafe, will have more indignities thrust upon him — beginning now — and she asks of her grandson, "Guy, why are the slaves wearing loincloths? In my recollection that was never a Barrois practice. They kept their slaves naked — as a slave should be."

"Well, Grandmama, it was done out of consideration for you. Cato thought the sight of young naked slaves might offend you."

"So the idea to cover the slaves was Cato's, and not yours; am I correct?

"Yes, Grandmama."

"Really, Guy," Charlotte's reply is one of exaggerated surprise, "all decisions are for you alone to make. You are the Master, and Cato is a slave and has no right to direct you or even to make suggestions. You instruct HIM and not the other way around. And I won't have a slave anticipate what I might or might not like."

Cato blanches under the unexpected onslaught of this elderly woman, and suddenly, he has a new fear of her. Effectively she has reduced his standing in the household, and in deliberately referring to him as a slave, she has emphasised his true status. Bewildered, he wonders what he has done to incur her unexpected wrath. Hadn't he worked assiduously to please her?

Of course, Cato isn't to know the true reasons for Charlotte's animosity. To Charlotte's mind, Cato — who began service in the household many years ago as her late brother's young, personal slave — is the last remaining link to the Barrois family. She hates that brother with such intensity and passion that she is determined to rid the house of any lingering reminders of him. She has decided Cato must go and go soon.

"Guy, I think we need to start out as we intend to continue. I suggest you have those ridiculous rags removed from around the slaves' waists and have them serve us as they should — in their natural state. You forget that I grew up at 'La Forêt', and I was used to seeing slaves unclothed. Seeing those slaves dressed in those scraps of material is annoying; it makes fools of them and it reminds me of some unfortunate, performing animal at a circus, dressed up to provoke laughter from an audience. However, I don't see anything funny in all of this. Please, have them uncover themselves before we eat."

"As you wish, Grandmama. Cato, have the slaves uncover themselves."

I am appalled at this sudden decision to have the four of us serve naked. I'd taken refuge in my loincloth — and even though these emotions are denied to slaves — it had afforded me a small degree of dignity and self-respect. I respond to Cato's order to remove my scant covering and stand at naked-display before my Master and Mistress. If there is any comfort to be found in this, it is in the fact that I'm not alone; my fellow slaves stand naked alongside me. Lost in my embarrassment, I almost miss Charlotte Maratier's instruction to Cato … "You, too, Cato!"

"Mistress?" a puzzled Cato asks; "What… Mistress?"

"Remove your tunic, Cato. You're a slave aren't you? Remove your tunic."

"Master?" Bewildered, Cato looks to his Master for assistance. He is to receive none.

"You heard your Mistress, Cato. Now remove your tunic."

"But Master, I've always worn my tunic. The old Master..."

"The old Master is no more, Cato," Charlotte coldly interjects, "You now have a new Master, and he wants you as naked as the rest of his slaves. Now remove that ridiculous tunic. It makes your look like an organ-grinder's monkey. QUICKLY!"

Poor Cato! He is unable to grasp this sudden and unexpected turn of events. His little world — one given to him by my grandfather — has been swiftly dismantled, his authority taken from him, and he has been reduced to slave-nakedness by this spiteful woman who is now our Mistress. My fellow slaves smile broadly as they watch a tearful Cato remove his tunic; there will be much to discuss and laugh about in the slave quarters tonight.

I'm as surprised as they are at this, but my feelings are mixed. After his brutal caning of my ass last evening, I have some satisfaction in seeing Cato stand naked and disgraced before us. Yet my own experiences of the past two days temper this feeling with a degree of sympathy for his plight. Cato had served my grandfather and me loyally and faithfully over the years, and I suppose there is, within me, some residual recognition of this. Yet the speed with which he'd transferred his allegiance to Guy Maratier and his treatment of me as a slave, both surprised and shocked me. I had expected some small measure of understanding and tolerance from him, and I had received neither. Then I ask myself — did he have any other option but to give his loyalty to his new Master and to treat me as the slave I had become? He is, after all, a slave. And what an impressive slave he is.

I'd never seen Cato's naked body, but his tight fitting tunic had always emphasised his superb body. Often, as I spoke with him, I found myself admiring his strong muscular arms and the erotic flexing of his biceps. Even through his tunic I had a sense of his broad shoulders, powerful chest, and hard belly. Now, as I look at him unclothed, I see that my imagination hadn't exaggerated — he really is a fine slave. He is on the wrong side of forty-five but even so, there is still much to admire about him; his handsome features are topped by his cropped hair which was once a lustrous black, but is now flecked with grey and he has a luxuriant covering of black hair on his chest and belly. His large circumcised cock nestles in a thick, pubic bush, and his low hanging balls swing freely between the twin columns of his legs. Viewed from behind he has broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and firm, well-rounded buttocks divided by a deep, inviting cleft.

There'd always been a suspicion that Cato had been my grandfather's bed-buck, although I'd never seen evidence of this, and if it were the case, then they took great pains to conceal it. But Cato was my grandfather' closest companion — after me — and their relationship had been a unique one for a Master and slave. Now, as I look at Cato's nude body, I can well imagine my grandfather being smitten by the magnificent, young slave he'd purchased as an eighteen-year-old and named Cato.

The years that Cato spent as my grandfather's personal slave and companion must have been halcyon ones for him, and even when I became Master, I'd allowed them to continue. I was aware of my beloved grandfather's feelings for Cato, and so, out of my respect for him, I saw no reason to change Cato's special position in our household.

Now, however, under the new regime, all this has changed, and as I look at Cato, I fear for his future. Because of his closeness to my grandfather, he is as much a victim of Charlotte Maratier's spite as I am. Both of us have been brought down by her need for revenge, and we are fellow victims of our changed circumstances.

Dazed and uncomprehending, Cato stands in trembling nakedness before our Master and his grandmother.

"Guy, I'm upset at the way Cato disobeyed my order to remove his tunic and looked to you for support. This is intolerable. If I'm to assume temporary control of your household, and to make it run efficiently, then I must have total control over the slaves. Cato disobeyed me, and he must be punished."

"Very well, Grandmama. I have placed you in charge of the house, and, therefore, the slaves are answerable to you. If you decide Cato must be punished, then punished he'll be. I've already ordered one slave to be caned tomorrow, and I suppose we can also have Cato caned at the same time. I'll see to it — Cato will be given ten strokes of the cane the same as the other slave."

"Only ten strokes. Is that an appropriate punishment, Guy? The other slave quite rightly is to get ten, but Cato is in a different category, I should think. He carries a position of authority in your household and knows better than to disobey an order. After all, how many slaves has he punished for disobedience? Many I would suggest. He should know better than to hesitate when a legitimate order given to him. No, he needs to be made an example of. I should think he warrants twenty strokes of the cane at the very minimum."

"Very well, Grandmama," our Master acquiesces; "twenty strokes it is. I'll have Cato administer the ten stokes to the other slave first — he can contemplate his own punishment at the same time — and when he's finished he can take his place on the bench. I'll need to borrow Major Swanston's steward to administer the caning to Cato. I don't think we have any slaves capable of using the cane with Cato's ferocity."

"Major Swanston. Who's Major Swanston?"

"He's our next-door neighbour. He watched as Rafe was caned last night, and has offered to assist us in any way possible. He's a stickler for protocol, but quite pleasant. I think he'll be a good neighbour, and he does seem to speak for the other neighbours."

"Good! Then that's been settled," our Mistress declares her satisfaction. "Cato, take your place in line with the other slaves and stand at display."

So much has changed for Cato in the space of the last few minutes, that I doubt if he is fully aware of what is happening. Yet dutifully, he takes his place in line with the rest of us and assumes the display position. His eyes are glazed over with disbelief, and his hirsuteness is in sharp contrast to our sleek, oiled smoothness.

Our now triumphant Mistress confronts us and begins an inspection of all five slaves. She is fastidious and delights in finding fault with us. She harangues us with her sharp tongue, and tells us we need to look to ourselves to avoid offending her and our Master, or face the consequences. In turn, we are told to stand straight, tighten our bodies and to lower our eyes to the floor as she peruses us.

When she stands before me, I tremble; this woman frightens me, and I sense her intense hatred of me. My full, frontal nudity shames me, and I feel the shrinking of my genitals. I feel my scrotum tighten and wrap my balls in a tight embrace; as it retracts closer into my body, my cock shrivels and my glans seeks to hide itself in the refuge of its prepuce. But as her steely gaze wanders slowly over my body, she ignores me and discusses me with her grandson.

"So this is Rafe?"

"Indeed, he is. What do you think of him, Grandmama?"

"He's a sorry sight, but as I said to Cato earlier, he shows promise of better things. What do you have planned for him, Guy?"

"Well, my first thought was to send him out to 'La Forêt' to work in the fields for a few months to get him used to being a slave. Ultimately, I plan to use him as a pony paired with my current pony. I see that as his future. What do you think?"

"He'll make a noble pony. He's got the right build for a pony. He possesses a good, strong chest, broad shoulders, and powerful legs. Yes, he'll make a good pony. But I agree with you, the slave does need a few months of field work to build himself up."

"In view of what happened today, it could be a while before he goes out to 'La Forêt, I'm afraid."

"Why? What happened?"

The Governor's office was in touch with Simon Barrow — our lawyer — and asked if I could meet with them."

"What do they want? I'm always suspicious of politicians. Leave them alone, Guy. Stay away from them."

"It seems the Governor is fighting his campaign very much on the platform of tightening the slave laws, and he's asked if he can use Rafe in his campaign. There's a lot of bad feeling against the Barrois name at the moment, and all that hostility is directed at Rafe as the former Lucien Barrois. The governor feels that if the voters see Rafe standing in chains as a slave alongside him on the platform, it will be tangible proof of his determination to come down hard on the slaves in contrast to the abolitionists who want to ease the slaves' lot. The governor feels that the anger generated by the Lucien Barrois/Rafe saga will win him many votes."

"Yes, I can see that could be the case. Personally, I can't tolerate the governor; he's a nonentity whose parents were shop-keepers, if my memory serves me right. My suggestion is that you say no to his request to use Rafe. But I have to admit, his platform is preferable to his opponents', who want to ease the slave laws, and we would support him over them. I think it would be more appropriate to donate to his campaign, but not to use Rafe. There's the chance that the slave could be injured if one of the governor's rallies got out of hand. You don't want that, do you, Guy?"

"Of course not, Grandmama. As always there's wisdom in your words. Rafe won't be made available to the governor."

As I listen, I feel the bile rise and burn in my throat. It's true — as Lucien Barrois, I had promised my support to the incumbent governor. Then I was a slave-owner and a Master, and I was totally opposed to any easing of the restrictions that controlled our slave population. I was utterly opposed to the insipid arguments of the abolitionists and their partners, the 'be kind to a slave' do-gooders. I had supported the governor with both my money and the quite considerable authority of my Barrois name. I had determined to work tirelessly on his behalf, to at least maintain the status quo. Now, as a slave, I hope for victory for his opponents.

And I'm glad of Charlotte Maratier's distrust of the governor and her advice to my Master not to allow me to be used as part of his re-election campaign. Her argument that I could be damaged in a rally that gets out of hand is a valid one.

"So what are your plans for him, now?"

"Well, first, he has to be circumcised and branded." I listen as my Master and Mistress casually discuss my coming ordeal. "Cato. Did you arrange for the vet to call?"

Shaken out of his stupor, Cato answers, "Yes, Master; he is to call at 10.30 AM the day after tomorrow."

"Ah! That's excellent. My new brand will be ready late tomorrow afternoon. I paid the ironmonger a premium price to have it ready so soon. That means we can both skin and brand Rafe at the same time. Good man, Cato!"

"Tell me about this new brand, Guy."

"Basically, Grandmama, it's the same as the old Barrois brand except that the letter B has been replaced with an M. But in every other detail it remains the same. Rafe will be the first of our slaves to be branded with it. He'll be the first slave to wear M for Maratier on his chest."

"I'm pleased to hear it, Guy. It's only fitting that he should be the first of your slaves to bear your brand."

Charlotte is pleased. Her upstart distant nephew stands before her as a naked slave, and soon he will be branded with the humiliating symbol of her family and made to undergo the indignity of an enforced circumcision. She is indeed pleased, and now, there remains only Cato to humiliate further. She now turns her attention to him.

"Guy, we need to do something about Cato's body. He is far too hairy. I mean we can't have him serving in the house like this. I could never abide a hairy slave. They shed their hair all over the furniture and worse still there's always a chance of some of it getting into our food."

"I don't see that as too much of a problem, Grandmama. Tomorrow morning I'll instruct the grooms to body-shave him at the same time as they prepare my pony Norge. I think that will answer your concerns."

"Thank you, Guy. However it could well be a temporary situation as we really need to talk about his future."

"I don't follow, Grandmama. What about his future?"

"Well, Guy, I strongly suggest that Cato has to go. He's too entrenched in the ways of the former masters to be of much use to you. He's too set in his stubborn ways, and far too willful to be of use to you. After all, you can't teach an old dog new tricks, can you?"

"I suppose you're right. I hadn't thought about that. Perhaps I could send him out to 'La Forêt' as a field hand. He's strong and robust and still has a few years left in him."

"Guy, I think he is far too valuable a slave to waste in the fields. He's well trained in managing the affairs of a Master's household. There's always a demand for such a slave. No, I suggest you send him to auction and use the proceeds from his sale to buy a replacement steward. You could look for a suitable slave who you can train in your ways. Cato will no doubt be bought by a discerning owner who will do the same."

As I listen to this exchange between my Master and Mistress, I feel great pity for Cato. Just a short time ago, he confidently sought to ingratiate himself into our new Master's good graces. He'd not bargained on the vindictiveness of Charlotte Maratier. She has been instrumental in removing him from his position of authority within the household, and reducing his status to that of any other of the house slaves. He's been stripped naked and humiliated by her, and tomorrow he is to be further shamed by being body-shaved by Norge's grooms. Then after he has caned Marv, he is to be strapped down on the bench and given twenty strokes of his own cane. And now there's the possibility of him being sold at public auction. He is paying a high price for being my grandfather's favourite slave. Plaintively he begins to beg.

"Please, Master! Please, Mistress…"

His pleas fall on deaf ears. Charlotte Maratier has closed her heart to him. Cheerfully she tells Guy, "Well, Guy, it's getting late. I think it's time we dined."

Quickly all five of us break from our positions against the wall, and hurry forward ready to serve our Master and Mistress. Cato supervises us but he lacks his usual enthusiasm. No longer the household steward, he is now just another of his Master's slaves.

To be continued...

Posted: 08/19/11