Changed Circumstances

By: Jean-Christophe
(© 2011-2012 by the author)

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Chapter 44
A Waste of Time and Effort

Over the next three days, I got to know the road between La Forêt and the Fournier quarries intimately. I became acquainted with every steep incline, every sharp bend, every rut and every deep pothole. I came to appreciate the ‘easy’ trips to the quarry when we pulled an empty wagon behind us and I learned to dread the return trip with a full load of gravel.

On our return to La Forêt, Colton, the major domo would be waiting impatiently at the double entrance gates into the gardens with his team of slaves ready to unload us as quickly as possible so that we could return, without delay, to the quarries for our next load. From Colton’s perspective, no time could be wasted and he’d asked Claymore Jackson for an additional slave-gang and for two overseers to assist in driving his slaves that much harder.

*******

Claymore’s chief concern is to ensure that the harvest – now at its peak – continues without interruption. Secretly, he cursed Guy Maratier’s insistence that the garden paths be re-gravelled at this time. Really, he needs every slave and every wagon in the fields and the loss of even this one wagon and its team of drafts presents him with a problem.

The problem isn’t insurmountable –it is more of an annoyance – but it does run counter to his orderly organisation of the plantation, its workforce and their overseers. In order to take up the slack created by the absence of this wagon, he will need to drive the other slaves employed on the harvest that much harder.

Claymore, always the stern task-master, ensures that the plantation’s slaves work at full capacity at all times. Now he has to coax that little extra from them and the overseers’ whips are never still as they demand even more from an already fully extended workforce. 

Damn the man! Either Guy has no understanding of how a plantation should operate or he doesn’t care. Charitably, Claymore gives Guy the benefit of the doubt – it could be that his inexperience is to blame. He’ll need to work with La Forêt’s new owner to ensure this doesn’t happen in the future.

Claymore reflects this would never have happened back in old Jean-Claude Barrois’ day. Why even young Lucien knew better and never intruded into the chief overseer’s area of responsibility. This thought of Lucien reminds him that the slave Rafe is a member of this very same team now hauling the gravel at Guy’s insistence.

In fairness, Claymore knows this isn’t Colton’s fault – he’s as annoyed with Guy as he is – and he has grudgingly agreed to give the major domo some minimal assistance. But he’d baulked at two overseers. He could provide him with one and he’d delegated that task to Regis. And really Regis is as good as two and his whip would ensure that Colton’s work-gang kept their minds focused on their work and their backs bent to the task.

And he can’t spare any of his field-slaves to supplement Colton’s garden slaves. If the task is beyond them, then the major domo will have to use his house slaves. And anyway, a stint at real slave work could benefit them nicely.

Claymore is the first to admit the ‘house-boys’ originally chosen by Lucien are a delight to look at with their handsome features and eye-candy physiques but he’d always thought a periodic stint at real slave labour would work wonders with their bodies.

He’d suggested this to Lucien on several occasions but to no avail.

*******

Altogether, I spent three days hauling gravel from the quarries to La Forêt’s gardens. It was three days of unrelenting toil and backbreaking labour. And unimaginable suffering!

Initially, Claymore, in consultation with Colton, had allocated two days for us to complete the task. After inspecting the garden paths, they’d reasoned it would take six loads of gravel and it was decided that we were to make three return trips a day. And in the interests of time, Claymore had ordered that we were to return to La Forêt with a ‘full load’ and not ‘part of a load.’

However, theory is one thing and when put into practice it can become entirely different. It proved physically impossible for us to meet Claymore’s timetable and demands.  

Despite the incessant demands of our driver and Sir Conn we struggled to meet Claymore’s schedule. And much to his chagrin, we weren’t able to manage more than two trips a day. In his single-mindedness, it never occurred to Claymore to lessen our load or to extend the time limit he’d imposed upon us. To do so would be to admit that he’d miscalculated and he’d see this as a loss of face. And Claymore isn’t one who’ll lose face to a team of slaves. On our second trip to the quarry – and all subsequent ones – he sent Sir Regis along to assist the driver and Sir Conn.

The journey from La Forêt to the quarries was relatively easy. With an empty dray behind us we managed the three mile trip in good time. It was only when we began the return trip that we experienced difficulties. Our heavy load slowed us down and each time we approached a hill we stalled. It wasn’t that we didn’t try – we did and the whips of our three slave-drivers ensured that we tried our hardest.

The stillness of the countryside was disturbed by the furious cracking of whips and the abusive language of our three whip-masters. The sound of leather striking our naked flesh and our cries of pain reverberated through the surrounding forest. Our laboured breathing and the rattling of the wagon’s wheels on the gravelled road surface drowned out all other sound.

We struggled with that first load and it was a foretaste of what was to come with the five that followed. All twenty of us responded to the whip as best we could but even its excessive use wasn’t enough to speed us up. All our strength was expended in just keeping the wagon moving forward - albeit slowly. 

That day, I learned that even the whip has its limitations; I discovered there is a point to which a slave can be driven. There is ultimately a threshold to which a slave can be taken and it is both emotionally and physically impossible for him to breach it. No matter how hard or how often the lash is applied to a slave when he has reached the limits of his physical endurance, he can give no more of himself. Beyond that point the whip becomes ineffectual.

That first return journey back to La Forêt will remain with me for always.

As we turned from the road into the sweeping driveway leading up to the house and its gardens, I knew that I was to enjoy a temporary respite as the garden slaves unloaded the gravel. With a slave’s docile acceptance, I now looked forward to any rest – no matter how brief it is. And who knows – perhaps I’ll be given water to slake my thirst and have time to empty my bladder before we return to the quarry.

Claymore stood with Colton at the garden gates impatiently waiting for our return. Angrily, he berated our driver for our slowness and refused to accept any excuses for our ‘laziness’. It was then that he decided that Regis would accompany us on all our trips to and from the quarries. Darkly, he said that an extra whip might “hurry us along.”

But even Sir Regis whip couldn’t speed up our return trips hauling a heavily loaded wagon. Reluctantly, Claymore accepted – with bad grace – that he needed to allocate an extra day and so our two days of torment turned into three.

That first trip, we docilely moved along the garden paths halting when ordered to do so as the garden slaves – their numbers now augmented by the house boys – shovelled furiously to unload the gravel.

Thoughtfully, Colton had provided cool drinks and sandwiches for our driver and Sir Conn.  Gratefully, they thanked Colton and then rested in a shady spot on the lawns to enjoy their welcome snack as we continued to labour.

How I envied them!

My throat was dry and my belly rumbled with its hunger pangs. But there would be no food for either me or my fellow slaves until evening.  However, we were given a generous amount of water to drink and for this I was most thankful.

Then, once the gravel had been unloaded, we began our trip back to the quarries for a second load.

*******

La Forêt’s gardens have never looked better. Always a source of pride to the Barrois family, no effort or expense was ever spared in maintaining their immaculate appearance.

It was my grandmother who, as a new bride, enthusiastically set about restoring La Forêt’s dilapidated manor and its neglected gardens to their former glory.  She’d inherited these as the new Mistress of the household and with her inherent good taste – and unlimited funds from my doting grandfather – she restored both the house and its surrounding gardens to their once former glory as the ancestral seat of the Barrois family.

Today both the house and its gardens stand as fitting memorials to her.

Colton is sparing neither his house nor garden slaves in making both ready for the impending visit of the family’s new matriarch, Charlotte Maratier. My Master has determined her return to the ancestral home, from which she’d been banished all those years ago, is to have all the hallmarks of a triumphal homecoming.

However, more than anything, her return is to highlight the ascendancy of the new Maratier dynasty and the downfall of the now disgraced Barrois family.

And I have played my part in his plans by working as a draft slave in helping to prepare the gardens for Charlotte’s visit.

For Lucien, the gardens had always been a haven of serenity and peaceful seclusion. As I’d strolled along its shaded paths or rested under a stately tree, I’d taken for granted the garden’s tranquillity. And never once had I thought about the unhappy slaves who toiled under Colton’s harsh discipline to maintain them for my pleasure.

Now, as the slave Rafe, I’ve had first-hand experience of the effort that goes into maintaining La Forêt’s garden. I have struggled in my chains and felt the sting of the lash in helping to prepare them for Charlotte’s visit.

All the activities are personally supervised by Colton with just an occasional visit from an impatient Claymore who remains annoyed at this interruption to the good running of the plantation.

Colton for his part is ‘liverish’ and shows his bad temper with his continual, loud haranguing of us and the constant use of his cane on our backs and asses. Even I’m not exempted and more than once, I felt the swish of his cane across my shoulders. But I am luckier than his garden slaves. Over the three days, I lose count of how many of these unfortunates he sentences to punishment in ‘The Yard’ at day’s end.

Finally, we have returned from the quarries with our last load of gravel and now wait patiently as it is unloaded and spread evenly over the last section of pathway. I caste my eyes around the gardens and sadly reflect that once they’d belonged to me.

Despite this and the torments of the past three days, I am still able to appreciate their beauty. The soft honey-gold of the gravel both contrasts and complements the verdant green of the shadow-dappled lawns and the subtle blending of colours in the adjacent flower-beds.

Slowly, yard by yard, we move the dray forward to allow the slaves to unload and spread the gravel; as we do so our bare feet and the wagon’s wheels make scrunching noises in the loose surface. I remember how as a young boy – and it all seems so long ago now - I would walk these same paths with my grandmother mischievously scrunching my feet through the loose gravel. Fondly, I recall how she’d indulgently chide me.

“Lucien dear! Stop scrunching and lift your feet. You’ll soon wear out the toes of your shoes if you keep dragging your feet in the gravel.”

The memory of this is a bitter-sweet one.

At last! The last of the gravel is unloaded and we leave the garden slaves to continue with their work as impatiently, Sir Regis orders us into the fields. There is still much work to be done there. The harvest, which is now in full swing, awaits us.

And Colton is pleased with the final results of our labours!  La Forêt’s mansion house and gardens are at their immaculate best and they are now ready for Charlotte Maratier’s ‘homecoming’.

Over the next six weeks, as I labour in the fields, I’m to become aware of momentous events taking place back in the city. I will, at first, hear of these as gossip between the overseers or on the slave grapevine and I will learn more from Norge much later when my Master pays La Forêt a visit.

*******

Guy Maratier had plans well underway for his grandmother’s return to La Forêt. He’d recently installed her in her own household and supplied her with enough slaves to ensure she lived the lifestyle to which she’s now entitled. And he’d made a present to her of his personal body-slave, Ben who serves as her chief steward.

He’d regretted parting with Ben for whom he’d formed an attachment not just for his winning ways in the bedchamber but also for his ability in organising his household and controlling his house-servants. After the fiasco with the luckless Pollux, who Guy had chosen to replace Cato as his major domo, it was Ben who’d emerged as the as the new replacement; a move strongly advocated of by his grandmother.

Uncharacteristically, Charlotte had taken a ‘shine’ to Ben and so it followed that of all his house slaves Ben would best serve her needs as controller of her household. Much as my Master regretted losing Ben, he could deny his beloved grandmother nothing. He loved her that much.

And Lionel Schuster had made good with his offer to find two identical slaves to serve as bearers of the special sedan chair which Guy had commissioned as a conveyance for the elderly Charlotte. These two slaves are identical twin brothers and Lionel Schuster never revealed exactly how he’d come by them and true to his word, Guy never asked. But as promised, he rewarded the slave-trader with a generous bonus.

Charlotte delighted to be seen from the comfort of her ornate sedan chair as it was carried by the two brawny brothers through the city’s streets. Imperiously, she’d slightly incline her head or give a regal wave of the hand in recognition of some nonentity now clamouring to make her acquaintance.

However, all the past slights and insults that she and her impoverished Maratier family had suffered at the hands of the city’s elite aren’t to be forgotten. Deep within, her resentment towards them still festers. She will bide her time and one day, given the opportunity, she will repay kind with kind.                               

*******

Life is now good for Charlotte. She has been restored to her rightful place in society and her remaining years as the Maratier family’s matriarch promise to be good ones. And she looks forward to her triumphant return to her ancestral home, La Forêt where she has one final task to perform. 

Already she has plans to strip the house of all remaining traces of its Barrois connection. First to go will be the family portraits of her hated parents and brother, Jean-Claude and his progeny. These will be taken down from the walls, cut from their ornate frames and burnt. And then she will ruthlessly ferret out every last vestige of her upstart great nephew, Lucien Barrois. His memory is to be expunged for all time and his presence at La Forêt only ever remembered as that of the slave, Rafe.  Only then will she rest content.

Now firmly established in her own household, Charlotte began to make plans for her return to La Forêt. She’d made it her concern to find out as much as possible about Colton, the major domo and Claymore Jackson, the chief overseer and what she had learned displeased her. From all accounts both men had been close to her brother and the usurper, Lucien. This unilaterally condemned them in her eyes and she was determined both men would have to go.

Of course, they are free men and paid employees of her grandson so she’ll need to tread carefully. It would be so much easier if they were slaves. Then, it would be a simple matter to send them to the auction block much as it had been with the unfortunate Cato. But because they are free men, she will need to use all her natural cunning to have them dismissed. But she is equal to the task and like water dripping onto a stone she’ll use her visit to continually find fault with both men and to gradually erode Guy’s confidence in them. 

Then, upon her return from La Forêt, she will focus all her malevolence on THAT self-serving lawyer, Simon Barrow. He is fast gaining too much influence over her grandson and she sees him as a direct challenge to her authority. This condemns him in her eyes and he too will have to go! 

Charlotte now stands formidably at the pinnacle of her new found power as the matriarch of the Maratier family. She presides over her own household with an iron fist and is served by a retinue of terrified slaves whose only role is to pander to her every whim and need or risk dire punishment. And aiding and abetting her as house steward is her young slave, Ben.

Ben also has reason to be pleased. His rise to this exalted position – a highly unusual promotion for such a young slave - had been made possible by the enslavement of his former Master, Lucien Barrois. An intelligent slave, he’d acted quickly to distance himself from his former master and he’d worked assiduously to ‘ensnare’ his new Master with his not inconsiderable charms and bedroom skills.

And for some unknown reason, his new Master’s grandmother, Charlotte Maratier had taken a liking to him.

This had delighted Ben and he cunningly insinuated himself into her good graces.  She’d quickly raised him to the position of acting steward in place of the luckless Pollux, her grandson’s choice and he’d used this as an opportunity for further advancement. Sensing her bitter animosity towards her former great nephew, Lucien Barrois, he never lost an opportunity to humiliate or to punish the unhappy slave, Rafe. Cunningly, he’d choose these moments of torment for the hapless new slave carefully; always ensuring that his Mistress was on hand to witness them.  

And it had paid off handsomely! Now a firm favourite with his Mistress, Ben is her closest confidante and reigns supreme over her household.

Charlotte, now restored to her birth right, is at the zenith of her power and eagerly looks forward to her triumphant return to La Forêt.

But unhappily for Charlotte, Fate intervened. Capriciously, a lot of what had been given to her was snatched away in the blink of an eye.

On the eve of her departure for La Forêt, Charlotte Maratier suffered a stroke that left her paralysed down one side and unable to walk. More devastatingly, she lost the power of speech and her venomous tongue was stilled!

*******

I first overheard of Charlotte’s fate as it was discussed among our overseers. Naturally, it was of some interest to them but less so to my fellow slaves. The slaves didn’t know their Mistress and had no experience of her mercurial temperament. On the other hand, I had and I rejoiced at her misfortune.

I’d suffered much at her hands; she was the instrument of my downfall and I can’t say that I had one iota of sympathy for her. This is out of character for me; normally I wish no harm on any person but to hear that she no longer enjoys the ‘spoils’ of her victory over me made me smile and lightened the yoke on my back.

To hear that she was now an invalid was reward enough but to learn that she’d been rendered speechless was an added bonus.

I exulted that the venomous tongue could no longer form the bitter words which were so much a part of her character. I rejoiced that her spiteful thoughts could no longer express themselves in vitriolic words and they must now dwell within the perpetual silence of her mind. Now, she has no voice to express her hatred of me and I hoped the corrosiveness of her nature would slowly eat away at her soul for the remainder of her days. Her acid words were forever silenced and I saw this as poetic justice!

Later, I was to learn from Norge that Charlotte’s ‘changed circumstances’ also had  unfortunate consequences for the conniving slave Ben.

Guy Maratier was devastated by his grandmother’s illness and spared no expense in seeking a medical cure. His efforts proved fruitless; Guy was to discover that even unlimited wealth can prove useless in the face of such adversity.

Inevitably, he had to accept the final verdict of all the specialists who he’d consulted. Charlotte was to live out her days either bedridden or in a wheelchair. Denied the use of her hands she would be totally dependent on others for the remainder of her days. She would need constant, around the clock, supervision and attention.

The specialists suggested that Guy employ the services of a live-in, fully trained nursing companion for his grandmother. Briefly, Guy considered this but decided he couldn’t entrust the care of his beloved grandmother to that of a stranger. Better that she be served by one she knew, she liked and trusted. This could go some way to making her difficult life easier.

And there was no one she liked more than her house steward, Ben who fitted these criteria perfectly.

Guy decided that Ben would become Charlotte’s constant body slave; always there to feed her and afterwards to wipe her mouth and chin; he would be on hand to bathe and dress her of a morning, to tend to her bodily comforts during the day and to undress her ready for bed of a night time.  Each night, Ben would sleep on the floor alongside his Mistress’s bed and remain ever alert for her call.

Guy acted quickly! He visited Lionel Schuster’s slave-market and at great expense purchased an older, more experienced slave to take charge of Charlotte’s household thus relieving Ben for his new role as body slave to his Mistress. Now freed from the onerous duties of house steward, Ben could give his undivided attention to Charlotte’s comfort and wellbeing.

I can only imagine at Ben’s re-action to this. And as with Charlotte, I felt no sympathy for my former body slave. Through his devious machinations, he’d briefly enjoyed his time as Charlotte’s chief steward. Now, he has been reduced once more to the level of a body slave and he is to share in his Mistress’s handicap as her personal care-giver.

I decide there is justice in the world after all. Charlotte Maratier and Ben deserve each other.

*******

The remainder of my six weeks working as a draft slave were marked by long hours, unremittingly hard labour and the verbal and physical abuse of my handler, Sir Conn.

I emerged from those six weeks stronger in both mind and body. My physique was at the peak of its condition. I felt good and despite my dishevelled appearance and grime encrusted body, I knew that I looked good. My labours had honed my body to rock solid hardness and conditioned my mind into an acceptance of myself as a slave.

To be truthful, it was hard to see myself as anything other than a slave as I toiled naked under the whips of the overseers.

My first days at La Forêt had been difficult. When I’d arrived at the plantation, I’d been a slave for so little time that I was still in a state of shock at the reversal of my fortunes. My previous life had been brutally torn from me and my new one loomed frighteningly before me. Despite what I knew and understood about slavery, I was totally unprepared for its actuality.

At the end of those six weeks – and remember they’d been preceded by six weeks on the water-wheel - there was absolutely no doubt in my mind that I was now a slave for life. I accepted that without question. Guy Maratier owned me. He was my Master and I was his slave.

This was an epiphany for me; this rebirth of myself as a slave. The former Lucien Barrois was dead with his body ignominiously buried under the weight of his shameful birth and his memory sullied by public approbation. No headstone marked his passing and except for the Maratier family, his resurrection as the slave Rafe went largely unnoticed. 

There is a saying that hope springs eternal and at first I had hoped for some miracle to happen which would restore me to my old, familiar life. Those first days on the water-wheel had been filled with thoughts of what was happening to me is all a dreadful mistake and soon someone will come to release me from my chains and grant me my liberty. But this didn’t happen!

And with the passing of each day, my hope faded just a little more. There was to be no freedom for me. My nakedness, my brands and the collar around my neck were constant reminders to me what I’d become, what I am and what I will remain to the end of my life. I am a slave!

And so, when the day came for me to be removed from the draft team and taken to the stables to begin my pony training, I was resigned to the inevitability of my fate. I went quietly to the stables and stood docilely as the grooms set to work to prepare me for my new role. In truth, I enjoyed the attention they lavished on me as I was made smooth. I knelt as my tangled hair was pony cropped, and my face shaved smooth. I stood placidly as they stripped the hair from my chest, belly and limbs.

Nervously, I watched as their razors shaved my cock and balls and scraped the stray hairs from my ass crack. I luxuriated as they scrubbed me clean with perfumed soap that took away my slave stink. Unselfconsciously, I began to show my excitement as they massaged me with scented body oil to better highlight my newly acquired musculature. And my arousal was complete when I was fitted with my new genital cinch designed to help me show ‘proud’ as I trained.

Now cleaned, groomed and ready to begin work as a pony, I was taken to Claymore Jackson for his inspection and approval. I took pride in my new appearance and I stood proudly as Claymore’s hands roamed over my torso gauging my fitness and readiness. I lost count of how many times he ordered me to inhale and to hold my breath before exhaling as a test of my lung capacity. He examined my corded thighs and the soles of my feet – now hardened and calloused and made suitable for running barefoot. He hefted my balls and stroked my cock to iron-bar rigidity and then told me.

“Rafe, you show proud as a good pony should. Keep it up and your Master will be pleased with you.”

He ordered me to “turn, bend and spread” so that he could test whether my virginity was still intact. The answer was too obvious as I’d spent all my nights locked away in a security cage to spare me the forbidden attention of my fellow slaves.

Finally, he examined the health of my mouth and the soundness of my teeth and declared me ready to start the final part of my training.

Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and touched the side of my face and spoke softly just to me.

“You have done well, Rafe! I’m pleased with you, boy!”

There was gentleness to his touch and kindness in his words. I wondered why this was so?

But I also found encouragement in them. In his own gruff manner, Claymore was telling me that I’d successfully made the transition from the once proud, aristocratic Lucien Barrois to the accepting and now obedient slave, Rafe.  

This was unexpected and I wondered if Claymore recalled the small boy, who many years ago, eagerly sought out his company and trustingly placed his small hand in his large one? Perhaps he still has memories of those faraway days. I still do!

Then abruptly turning from me he told the grooms that because the hour is late, I am to begin my training in earnest the next morning. But for the present, He instructed them to take me to the stables and place me in the stall next to the one occupied by his pony, Jake and leave me to rest.

Peripherally, I had been aware of Jake standing to one side watching as Claymore examined me. And seeing him reminded me of his friendship with Norge. But then, Norge is never out of my thoughts.

I was delighted with the stall that was to be my home for the duration of my training. It was clean and airy and had been covered with freshly strewn straw in readiness for me. It was large enough for me to stretch out full length to sleep and after the close confines of the security cage this was luxury indeed.

It was true that whenever I was locked in my stall a strong chain, anchored into the floor, was shackled around one ankle; but it was long enough to allow me some freedom of movement. I could pace around my stall to ease my cramped leg muscles and I had room to exercise and flex.

A trough, filled with fresh, clean water stood in one corner and a drain which served as a receptacle for my bodily fluids and wastes ran along the rear of the stall. Here I was able to squat, straddle-legged, to urinate and defecate with some degree of privacy and after the humiliation of publicly pissing and shitting like an animal on the water-wheel and in the draft team this was most welcome. The drain was flushed out several times a day which removed my ordure and kept any unpleasant smells to a minimum.

Later, I will discover there are wooden nameplates attached to each stall which bear the occupants’ names. Above mine is a newly painted sign with the name “RAFE” written in large black letters. This marked the stall as mine and over the next three months I came to see it as my home

Suddenly my lot had improved and for the better.

But the greatest pleasure was the companionship I shared with Jake. Our stalls were separated by a solid timber wall approximately four feet in height which was topped by an open mesh metal grill that allowed us to see one another and to speak. And I was to discover there were no restrictions on us talking freely with one another.

That evening, as the other ponies were lead in by their grooms and placed in their night-stalls, I watched as Sir Regis’s pony, Honky entered the other stall adjoining mine. This meant that I had Jake on my right and Honky on my left.

At first, I was shy and unsure of the welcome I would receive from new stable mates and so I remained silent. But both Jake and Honky warmly welcomed me and the other ponies, taking their cues from them, shouted out their own greetings to me from their stalls. It appeared that I had been accepted into their company. They soon had me at my ease and included me in their camaraderie.   

After we’d eaten our evening meal, we talked until tiredness overtook us and we fell into a deep slumber. I slept soundly through the night until we were woken in the predawn gloom, given our morning ration of food and taken out by our grooms and made ready for our day’s labours.

I watched as Jake and Honky were harnessed to their carts and then tethered to a hitching rail to wait for the arrival of their drivers, Claymore Jackson and Sir Regis. While they waited, the overseer entrusted by Claymore Jackson with the task of “breaking” me, attached a leather lead to my collar and led me away to begin my training.

My training to become a pony involved several stages and I supposed it mirrored that of Norge’s training of last year. Before I was actually placed in harness I had to undergo a strict programme of exercises to maintain my cardio-vascular fitness and to strengthen my legs. Only when my trainer was completely satisfied - and he didn’t spare his whip to achieve this satisfaction - did he allow me to move on to the next step of my training.

The next part of my training was the worst. It was slow, tedious, repetitious and soul-destroying. I was made to move in a wide circle around a central post to which I was attached by a long, training lead. On the end of this lead, which was fastened to my collar, I was made to walk, trot, canter and run in a never-ending succession of circles encouraged by my trainer’s whip.  Once I had mastered those parts of my training, I was introduced to the more fanciful steps that a driver demands from his pony; I was taught the high-step and the prance. These proved to be the most difficult for me; I was slow to learn them and only did so after many painful encounters with the training whip.

My nights were better. These were spent in conversation with Jake, Honky and the other ponies. This freedom to converse was most welcome after the loneliness of my first three months, and I entered wholeheartedly into their friendly banter.

Because of their close proximity, most of my conversations were with Jake and Honky. They had a genuine interest in my progress and both encouraged me with their suggestions as to how I could make things easier for myself. I appreciated their concerns and listened carefully to all they told me. In a sense they gave me the support that I missed getting from Norge.

Norge was never far from my thoughts and inevitably – given that Jake also shared my affection for him – our conversations would turn to Norge. Jake told me of Norge’s oft-spoken concerns for me and my wellbeing. Jake told me that whenever our Master visited La Forêt and he and Norge were stabled together, Norge’s first questions were about me. Always, he’d ask if Jake had seen me, how I was coping and how I looked. I was touched by this and when one night, Jake told me that Norge frequently spoke of his love for me, I was reduced to tears. I missed Norge so much.

I missed Norge dreadfully! I missed his wise words of advice and I longed for his unstinting support. But most of all, I missed his touch and his masculine smell; I ached for the tight embrace of his arms wrapped around me and the feel of his strong, muscular body pressing close against mine. I missed the iron-rod rigidity and heat of his cock crossing swords with my own cock and the pleasurable sensation of it nestling comfortably within my ass-crack. But most of all, I wanted to feel it buried deep within me.

My days were hard but my nights made it all bearable through my newfound friendships with my fellow ponies. In a way, I think I was happier than I had ever been. These slaves, who Lucien had exploited for his own selfish interests, possessed nothing other than their generosity of spirit. This they gave freely to me by forgiving me the wrongs committed against them and in the warmth of the friendship they extended towards me. I considered myself fortunate to belong to their number.

Inevitably, my Master visited La Forêt and my happiness at seeing Norge after so long a separation was boundless. As was customary, Claymore gave permission for Norge to be stabled with Jake. I was overjoyed that not only could I see Norge and to speak to him but I could actually reach through the grill that separated us and touch his body.

And it was obvious that Norge was overjoyed to see me too. His cock – like mine - swelled with his happiness.

Jake, Norge and I talked for hours. I had so much to tell him.

I told Norge how much, I’d missed him and he plied me with a torrent of questions which conveyed his concern for my wellbeing. I hastened to tell Norge that all was well with me.

Proudly I told Norge, I now accepted the inevitability of my changed circumstances and I wanted nothing more than to serve alongside of him. And I told him that I am justifiably proud of my progress and that I have come a long way since my enslavement. I have moved from the bitter despair of those early days into the final acceptance of my new station in life.  I now accepted that, like him, I am a slave. And in that acceptance, I had found a new peace of mind and a degree of contentment.

That first night, my excitement at seeing Norge prevented me from sleeping. The thought of him lying on the other side of the thin wall that separated my stall from Jake’s was frustrating but his proximity was some compensation. I listened as he and Jake made love. Was I jealous? Not at all! Envious perhaps but I wasn’t jealous.
 

I understood all that Norge and Jake meant to one another and how could I be jealous of their mutual affection. Besides, I had grown to appreciate all that Jake had unselfishly given to Norge during his days at La Forêt.  He’d made Norge’s stay bearable and I was deeply indebted to him for that.  And during our nightly talks, I had recognised the nobility of Jake’s character. It was true to say that I now shared Norge’s deep affection for Jake. And I knew, when I eventually returned to the city, I would miss his friendship.

Several times during my training, Guy Maratier visited to check on my progress. These visits soon took on a familiar pattern.  First he would inspect me by running his hands over my upper body while discussing my level of fitness and muscle definition with my trainer and Claymore Jackson. I had learned to remain silent and to stand passively as he tweaked my nipples and toyed with my genitals. He had a genuine interest in my cock and he would spend several minutes sliding his fist up and down its shaft .This action never failed to bring me to full arousal and he always watched as my burgeoning erection sprang to life. This seemed to please him no end. Then as the final part of his inspection, he would gauge the strength of my legs and my ass before examining my teeth.

Before my Master left, my trainer always gave him a practical demonstration of my progress to date; he would put me through my paces by running me in a circle to demonstrate my speed and current ability. As I ran, they would talk and I supposed Master would be expressing his satisfaction - or dissatisfaction - with some aspect of my training and making suggestions as to how things could be improved.

Eventually my training finished and I was placed in harness for the first time. I was now a fully-fledged pony slave almost ready for my Master’s use. But before I was handed over to him I had to temporarily serve time as Claymore Jackson’s pony pulling him on his daily round of inspections of the vast estate.

Early each morning, I was harnessed to the Claymore’s cart and tethered at the front steps of his residence. After he’d eaten breakfast, he would drive me on his daily tours of inspection along the tree-shaded network of roads traversing La Forêt’s patchwork of fields. Some days I would catch a glimpse of Pollux working in the distance; bent double as he worked - and fearful of the whip - I doubt that he ever saw me working as a pony.

The two weeks I served as the Claymore’s pony put the finishing touches to my training; under his tutelage, I learned to respond to the driver’s whip. Ponies are expected to give of their best in the service of their Masters but even the best-intentioned pony will flag at times. Inevitably, his legs will tire and it is then that the whip is brought into play. And so it was with me on my first day in harness.

 I’d been in harness for several hours and made to run from one spot to another with the occasional stop as the Claymore talked with his overseers. I quickly learned to value these all-too-brief pauses; they gave my bursting lungs a chance to replenish and for my aching legs to cease their jelly-like quivering.

After one such stop, I thought I was running at the required speed and I was therefore surprised at Claymore’s impatient instruction to me to.

“Come on! Come on! Pick it up!”

I yelped as his whip cut across my ass and acting on reflex I threw myself forward into my harness.

“PICK IT UP! PICK IT UP!”

As he continued to shout at me and to apply his whip to my shoulders, back and buttocks, I tried, with animal like panic, to outrun the cruel sting of his lash. I suspect some type of survival instinct took control of my mind - one that sought to remove my body from the source of its pain. In a vain effort to outrun the whip, I found myself running ever faster and drawing on hidden reserves of strength and endurance.

But for a pony in harness, there is no escaping the whip. In my futile effort to escape the whip’s fury, I was indeed running faster which is what my driver was demanding of me. He was victorious; I had responded as a pony inevitably must. His will had prevailed over any imagined inability on my part to give more of myself to the task required of me. He’d demanded more of me and I had given it.

I became a true pony that day and was ready to serve my Master.

*******

Now six months after I first came to La Forêt as the frightened new slave, Rafe, I stand motionless as my Master examines me.  He is watched by Claymore Jackson and the young overseer, Conn, the two men most responsible for my training.

My Master takes my cock in one hand and my balls in his other. He gently squeezes my balls as he strokes my eager cock into even greater hardness. He is gratified with my response and tells me that I am putting on a great show and he is proud of me.  Then turning to Claymore and Sir Conn he comments.

“Rafe presents well doesn’t he? His cock is at least the equal of Norge’s and the two of them running side by side should show well…. as you have noted, Claymore.”

“Indeed he does, Guy! And the amazing thing is the stamina and endurance of his prick. He’s able to keep it up for inordinately long periods. He has that in common with your other pony, Norge. I remember, when I drove Norge during his initial training, I was impressed with his ability to show well. Rafe is at least his equal and I think both ponies will do you proud and warrant many an admiring glance.”

“So tell me Claymore, do you consider Rafe is ready for harness work. Should I be looking to take him back to the city with me?”

“Guy, the slave is more than ready. One has only to look at his body to see that. Look at the steady rise and fall of the chest. That speaks of his great lung capacity which adds to his ability to sustain long distance running. I always said that the slave’s physiology makes him ideal for pony work”.

“I don’t quite follow, Claymore. What do you mean about his physiology?”  

“Well Guy, I believe a slave’s human physiology makes for the perfect pony. Put simply, slaves were designed for running. Think about it for a moment. The slave is designed to walk or run in an upright position and his eyes are focused to enable him to do this. And his cardio-vascular system and his long legs are designed to carry him over great distances. His legs and feet have a unique system of flexible springs that generate and store a lot of energy and his lungs supply oxygen to fuel that energy. He has an inbuilt cooling system in that he sweats profusely and this stops him from overheating.  And even his ass has a role to play; the Gluteus Maximus muscles keep him in balance as he runs. Rafe has all these attributes and he’ll make a great pony to team with Norge.”

“I’d never thought of it in those terms, Claymore. But it does make sense.”

“Guy, it makes perfect sense. Next time you drive your pony at full gallop, don’t just admire his ass. Take time to study it and see how it all works. Look at the play of muscles in his back and note the working of his legs as he strides out and see how both ass cheeks keep it all in balance. Do that and you’ll see a pony’s true beauty? There is no more pleasing sight than to sit behind a pony and watch his body in action.”

My Master continues to excite me and he is amused by my trembling response to his stimulation.

He strokes my cock with one hand and reaching behind me he uses a finger of the other hand to test my virginity  

“Steady on there, Rafe! You’re becoming a bit too frisky for your own good.”

I hear Claymore and Sir Conn laughing in the background.

“From the feel of him, the slave is very tight. Obviously, my orders were followed? He has never been fucked?”

“Guy, Rafe has never been violated. Your orders were followed to the letter of the law. He’s as chaste as the driven snow. Isn’t that right, Conn?”

“That’s right, Sir!

Sir Conn’s answer is concise and leaves much unsaid. My mind returns to our early mornings trysts in the shrubbery bordering the homestead’s gardens. But always, the young overseer had respected his employer’s instructions and my ass had remained ‘out-of bounds’ to him.

Master leans closer to me and suggestively whispers in my ear.

“Well boy! That’s a situation we’ll have to correct, isn’t it?  I’ll attend to that just as soon as I get you back to the city.”

In saying this, he demonstrates his mastery over me.

Then turning to Claymore he tells the overseer.

“Rafe will return to the city with me tomorrow. Please have him ready and shackled to Norge for an early morning departure.”

“Guy, I’ll do better than that. Why not take one of the double pony carts from here and have him run it tandem with Norge. You can put him through his paces on the straight stretches of the road and test his pulling power on the hills. It will be a good work-out for him and an opportunity for you to get a feel for your new pony.”

“What an excellent suggestion, Claymore. Thank you!”

For my part I am overjoyed!  Tomorrow I am to return to the city and begin my new life as my Master’s pony. In doing that, I am fulfilling my destiny and I have trained six months for this day’s arrival. I am impatient to begin but even more impatient to tell Norge that I will be returning with him to the city.

I doubt I will sleep much tonight. My excitement will be too great.

To be continued...

Posted: 03/23/12