CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
Chapter 12: Norge's Story
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 12: Norge's Story
By any stretch of the imagination this has to be a momentous day; second only to the day I was enslaved. I have a new Master and my former Master is now a slave.
It began as any other day for me; the life of a pony never varies from one day to another. I was woken before dawn by one of the outdoor, duty slaves - included in their list of duties is my care and grooming - and given my first meal of the day.
This meal, like the pattern of my life never changes. It was the usual, tasteless, grey sludge that is routinely fed to slaves. I don't know its composition but I once heard that a pony's food is slightly different to that given to other slaves and makes allowance for the increased stamina and endurance demanded of him. As a pony, I'm naturally required to run great distances for long, sustained periods of time. But I was fed the normal, slave food during my stint at `La Foret' and to be honest I can't tell the difference - both are unedifying to look at and tasteless to eat.
However, the manufacturer advises that both foods are "formulated to help your slave maintain his good health, to keep the digestive system in efficient working order, free of all parasites and to ensure your slave remains slim, muscle toned and smooth skinned". Obviously it works as I have never seen a fat slave and all are heavily muscled. The latter however may have more to do with the slave's heavy workload rather than his diet.
After my enslavement, it took me a long time to adjust to the blandness of my new slave diet. I still miss the sweet, juicy taste of an apple, the zesty, tangy bite of an orange and all the other foods I took for granted when I was free. There have been occasions, on hot days, when my former Master had stopped at a roadside kiosk and bought himself an ice-cream or a cool, refreshing, soft drink. How I envied him each lick of the ice-cream or every slurp of the drink can as my heightened sense of smell savoured both.
Still there were rare occasions when my former Master- if he was pleased with my efforts -would give me an additional reward other than his usual, appreciative pats on my ass and pop a piece of sweet, tasting candy into my mouth. My pleasure as my taste-buds exploded into unaccustomed action was immeasurable and I sucked slowly to savour and prolong this unexpected treat. However, it's a treat he seldom gave me but when he did, I was always extremely grateful to him.
As both my meals for the day are served to me in a wooden bowl and without eating utensils, I'm forced to eat using either my mouth or fingers. This too took some getting used to but now I'm very adept at it.
Once I was fed, my groom took me out to the slaves' ablution block where my first duty was to relieve myself of my bodily wastes. Then I was purged. This happens to me every day without exception. It was a particular requirement of my former Master that this happened; he was most fastidious about both my appearance and my behaviour and he was concerned that I never disgraced him in public with any little accidental calls of nature. After that I was groomed and made ready for the day.
There are two of the outdoor slaves who groom me. If necessary, my hair is cropped back to its correct length and I am body shaved. This is always a pleasurable experience for me as I enjoy the feel of the grooms' hands and their razors working on my body and I am quickly aroused. I particularly enjoy the experience of having my cock and balls manoeuvred around out of the way of their razors and my erections are always long, hard and sustained.
This is followed by my "bath"; I stand under a shower-head and my body is sprayed with cold water from above. It's a rather wet affair and I'm joined under the shower by my grooms who seem to like frolicking with me. It's hard to say who enjoys this more - them or me. There is something very sensual about having two fellow slaves soaping and washing my body at the same time. As one works on my front, the other scrubs my back and their erections match my own and give ample evidence of the pleasure they find in their work. These few minutes are usually carefree and the three of us indulge in much horseplay and laughter as we wrestle with one another under the cascading water.
However, we do need to keep a sharp eye open for Cato who doesn't appreciate our jocularity and views our high-spirits as a serious waste of our Master's time. A slave's time is a valuable resource that rightly belongs to his Master and for a slave to squander it is viewed as stealing from that Master. Such a misdemeanour displeases Cato and warrants immediate and harsh punishment.
If caught, the two grooms are made to bend at the waist and hold onto their ankles thus giving their bodies support while Cato canes them. The usual number of strokes they receive on their upturned buttocks is three but this can increase to five if Cato is out of sorts. Cato's new cane is fearsome and since its introduction we take extra care for them not to be caught. Cato never blames me for any bad behaviour - I am only a pony; it is always the grooms at fault. I do feel guilty as I listen to their yelps of pain as he canes them. It seems unfair that I have enjoyed the pleasure but don't share the pain.
After my bath, I'm dried off and inspected by Cato to see that I meet the high standards of my Master and should he be dissatisfied the two grooms are again punished. If I'm required for an early start, I'm placed in my harness and hitched to the cart which is then tethered in the courtyard to await my Master's pleasure. If I'm not immediately required then I'm returned to my stall where I wait until my services are needed. Because I am a pony I'm excused from other labours. I must conserve my energy and strength to meet my Masters needs as he drives me to his destination.
Today, my services weren't immediately required and after my grooming, I rested in my stall until late morning. This time of inactivity can be very boring and I envy the other slaves the activity of their labour and even their enforced, silent companionship with one another. As the only pony, my existence is a lonely one. I long for the company of another slave.
Usually this time spent alone is one of reflection for me. I fret for my lost freedom and I feel residual anger towards those who exploit me. And some of this is centred on my Master, Lucien Barrois. Only he is no longer my Master. Like me he is a slave and he is now named Rafe.
At first, I had resented Lucien Barrois' treatment of me but less so now. I can't blame him for the fact that I'm a slave; my own stupidity is to blame for this. I knew the immigration laws of this country were stringent and that the penalty for illegal entry was unnecessarily harsh. Foolishly, I'd gone on a drinking binge, overstayed my welcome and my ship had sailed without me. It never occurred to me that I would be swept up in one of the periodic raids of the immigration officials.
I suspect these raids are conducted on the basis of the need for new slaves rather than on any genuine concern for the law. When the slave clearing houses are almost empty a quick round-up of `illegals" can always be counted on to fill the holding pens. I was an unfortunate victim of one such round-up.
My resentment of Lucien Barrois dates from our first encounter. It was the day after my enslavement and I was still traumatised by this. Locked in a foul-smelling pen at a slave-dealership, I was naked and now wore the collar and mark of a brand new slave. Through the bars of my pen I saw this well-dressed young gentleman peering intently at me. He had all the hallmarks of a young master; arrogant, supremely self-confident and callously indifferent to the plight of a hapless slave.
At his instigation, I was dragged from the pen and made to stand on an inspection platform while he appraised me. When I first refused to comply with his commands, the slave handlers whipped me into position and then hovered in the background to see I behaved myself. It was at that moment that I understood my new status as a slave.
With a complete disregard for my feelings or emotions, Lucien then subjected me an inspection. True, his inspection was visual - he seemed reluctant to touch my oil-coated body - but as his eyes roamed slowly over me, I felt the degradation and humiliation that all slaves feel at such moments. I recall he had a particular fascination for my foreskin. His inspection finished, I was returned to the pen to wait for my trip to the auction block. Several days later I stepped up onto it and I was sold. Lucien Barrois bought me and I became his slave.
Lucien wasted little time in adapting me to his needs. The very first night, after I'd had the filth of the slave pens washed from me and I'd been made presentable for my new Master, I found myself in his bed where he used me as a man uses a woman. This was a first for me - in my free life I was heterosexual l- and I cried throughout the whole experience. My sense of shame at his treatment of my body is beyond description. It was a potent demonstration of a slave's helplessness when confronted by a master's overriding need.
The shame of that first night still lingers although it was to be the first of many such occasions. Gradually, I have adjusted my mindset to Lucien's needs and I now work hard to satisfy him and I have to admit there is some limited enjoyment in these occasions for me. And over time I sensed a change in his attitude towards me. I was still his slave but I detected a growing fondness for me. Ever so slowly, I found myself reluctantly returning those feelings. Unknowingly, my slave nature was opening up and I was acquiring the attributes of a loyal and obedient slave.
Within the first few days of his ownership of me, Lucien busied himself with altering my appearance from that of a free man to that of a slave. My hair was cropped, my body shaved smooth and he marked me with his personal brand - the ancient, archaic, Barrois coat-of-arms. Like all his slaves this brand is prominently displayed on my right pectoral just above the nipple. But my time with Lucien was short-lived. Within a few days I was shipped off to "La Foret" for conditioning and training.
Altogether, I spent six months at that accursed place. It was here that I learned about true slavery. Immediately, upon my arrival I was assigned to a work-gang of twenty slaves clearing rocks from new ground prior to it being ploughed.
Within the first few minutes, I was screaming out in pain as a black overseer's whip snaked through the air and wrapped itself around my torso. The pain was excruciating and it proved a powerful incentive for me to keep my back bent and to work as hard and as fast as is humanly possible.
Here, I discovered that all of La Foret's overseers are free, black men who are the descendants of the original, black slaves who'd once toiled for white masters. I discovered these black overseers still harbour a deep resentment of the white race - though they wisely conceal this from their white employers - and they vigorously visit the sins of the fathers on the white slaves now under their control.
They hold white slaves in contempt and they treat us harshly.
I was to spend three months in that gang of wretched slaves. Naked, unwashed and unkempt we laboured under the broiling sun and the scourges of our overseers from just after sunup until just before sundown.
There was no respite from the unrelenting drudgery of our labours. Every two hours the overseers allowed us to pause briefly and to quickly gulp down a couple of mouthfuls of water. This wasn't done for humane reasons but to compensate for our copious sweating and as a safeguard against dehydration. Otherwise we toiled without break. No allowance was made for our work stressed bodies and the slightest hint of slacking-off was rewarded with a blow from a whip. On my first day, having already tasted the whip, I foolishly straightened up and stretched my aching back. I heard the unfamiliar whistle of the whip and the loud thwack as once more it coiled itself around me. My scream drowned out the overseer's order to me to,
"GET BACK TO WORK! NOW! Bend your back."
Then in the gloom of the early evening of my first day, we were returned to the slave barracks for shackling and locking in.
Life in the barracks proved difficult for me that first night. As the new arrival, I was viewed as fresh meat and I attracted the attention of the more dominant slaves. As a former seaman, I knew how to defend myself in a fight but here I had to fight hard to preserve myself from their unwanted advances. Eventually, after several heated scuffles they gave up and decided to leave me alone.
I sought out a sleeping spot away from these trouble makers and it was here that I meet Jake. A year or two older than me, Jake had been a Barrois slave for about four years - or so he thought on his reckoning - and we became instant friends. Jake was to become the only bright spot in the time I spent at La Foret and we always contrived to work alongside one another in the fields.
Those first, few, lonely nights were only made bearable for me by Jake's presence lying alongside of me on the straw that served as our bedding. I soon learned to seek relief for my loneliness in the hard warmth of his body and the friendly embrace of his strong arms.
His strength and friendship sustained me through the first, dark days of my sojourn at La Foret. He took it upon himself to instruct and guide me in what the overseers expected of us. We worked as a pair using picks and crowbars to lever the heavy rocks from the earth's firm grasp and together we manhandled them onto the drays waiting to haul them to the nearby crushing mill for conversion into road metal. More than once we shared an impatient overseer's whip falling on our exposed backs. So close were we that whenever he was whipped, I felt his pain and shared his suffering. This was a type of friendship I'd never had before and it was one that sustained me in the early days of my slavery.
Inevitably, this friendship changed and we became lovers. For the first time, I now experienced that deep and wonderful feeling that only two men who truly love one another can appreciate.
Unlike the selfish, one-sided lust of Lucien Barrois, Jake and I had a shared love; one where neither one of us sought to dominate the other. It was a new experience for me - an avowed heterosexual - to discover that I could love another man in this way and surrender myself to him. It was a give and take situation where we each went as the spirit moved us; sometimes I would surrender my body to him and at other times he would open up to me. It's ironic that I had to become a slave to experience such happiness as I felt whenever I was with Jake.
My three months in the work-gang saw a marked change in me. The work was hard but it had honed my body to muscular perfection and raised my fitness to an unprecedented level. Genetically, I am blessed with a good physique and I'd always taken pride it my Nordic appearance. As my muscles hardened, my skin darkened to the rich, golden tan that one sees in people from the Scandinavian countries. My blond hair lightened to a silvery-gold colour and I'd never felt fitter or stronger Despite the hardship of my labours - or perhaps because of them - I thrived. And because I knew I looked good, I felt good. Slowly I was adjusting to my slavery and to help me along that road I had Jake as my travelling companion.
Sadly my happiness wasn't to continue and at the end of the three months, Jake and I were parted. Neither of us was to know our parting would be permanent and we never did get the chance to farewell one another. Even after all this time, I still miss Jake and often when I'm alone in my stall, I ache to feel him lying alongside of me. How I wish that he'd been trained as a pony and that we ran together as a matched pair.
One evening as my gang was being driven back to our barracks; an overseer hauled me out from my fellow slaves and delivered me to the stables where the heavy drafts and ponies are housed. Next morning the training that was to change me from a work slave into a pony began in earnest.
My next three months at La Foret were notable for the loneliness I felt at being parted from Jake and for the soul-destroying nature of my training. The only redeeming feature of this time was that I was kept clean.
At the end of my time in the work-gang, the filthy, grime encrusted creature with matted hair and beard that I'd become was unrecognisable from the person who'd arrived at La Foret three months ago. During my time in the slave-gang, the only cleansing I'd received was from the occasional summer rain that fell as we toiled or an infrequent hosing down; now I enjoyed the luxury of a twice daily cleansing.
My first day of pony training was spent in making me presentable. I was washed-numerous times-to remove the accumulated filth, grime and sweat of three months from my body, my hair was cropped and my body shaved smooth. At the end of this process I was new person and some of my self-respect and dignity returned.
My training to become a pony involved several stages. Before I was actually placed in harness I had to undergo a strict programme of exercises to improve 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 too slow to learn them and only did so after many painful encounters with the training whip.
My nights were spent alone in a securely locked stall. I missed Jake terribly and the sounds of the other ponies and heavy drafts engaged in their nocturnal frolics only made my solitude that much harder to bear. Time moved slowly for me and the dull monotony of my training was all I had to look forward to.
Several times during my training, Lucien Barrois 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 fitness level and muscle definition with my trainer. 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 foreskin - I was soon to lose it - and he would spend several minutes sliding it up and down the shaft of my cock. This action never failed to arouse me 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 Lucien 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 circles to demonstrate my speed and current ability. As I ran, they would talk, and I supposed Lucien 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 Lucien I was to temporarily serve time as his chief overseer's pony pulling him on his daily round of inspections of the vast estate.
Early each morning, I would be harnessed to the manager's cart and tethered at the front steps of his residence. He would then drive me on his lengthy, daily tour of inspection of La Foret travelling down the long, shady network of roads that traversed the fields and each day I would catch a glimpse of Jake working in the distance. Bent double to his labours and fearful of the whip, I doubt he ever saw me serving as a pony.
The three weeks I served as the manager'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 stops as the manager 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 the manager'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; it can't be outrun. In my futile effort to escape the whip's fury, I was indeed running faster which is what my driver demanded of me. He was victorious; I had responded as a pony must. His will had prevailed over my imagined inability to give more of myself to the task required of me. He'd demanded more of me and he got it.
I became a true pony that day and was ready to serve my Master.
As I said today is a momentous one. It is the day when my Master, Lucien Barrois became the slave, Rafe. But it began as a normal day and there wasn't any hint of it being otherwise.
I had been groomed and made ready at the usual time and because my services weren't required immediately, I'd been returned to my stall to wait on my Master. Then, in the late morning, Cato had supervised as my groom fitted me with my harness and hitched me to the cart. Cato told me I was to deliver my Master into the city centre a distance of some five kilometres from here. It wasn't my favourite trip; the route into the city and the city-centre were always crowded with people. Perhaps it was my imagination but as I travelled that way I felt very exposed and under constant scrutiny.
My Master takes pride in me; I am after all his personal pony and he likes for nothing better than to be complimented on my proud bearing and overall appearance. My body harness serves two purposes; it attaches me to his cart and it also serves to keep my body erect, pulling my shoulders back and thrusting my chest forward. I have a firm, flat belly that is ridged with hard muscle and my cinch rings thrust my cock and balls out into cheeky prominence. Being in harness and being made to run naked under my Master's whip usually arouses me so that my cock is rock solid hard and points the way ahead with iron-bar rigidity. I always feel shamed by this but my Master describes it as one of my endearing qualities. It isn't unusual for a Master or a Mistress to expect their ponies to show well and put on a proud display. Indeed ponies with the ability to do so are highly prized and fetch good prices at auction. But for me, this very public display is still humiliating and I retain enough of my free man pride to resent it.
My Master appears and climbs into the cart; I am instructed to "Walk on!" We don't go far however before he orders me to "WHOA!"
I stop and wait as he talks softly and confidentially to his old friend and neighbour, Major Swanston. The major is supervising and haranguing five, young slaves who are busily working in his front garden. The Major, who is always short-tempered and usually low on tolerance, carries a leather quirt and he breaks off talking with my Master to apply it viciously to the exposed back of an eighteen year old slave.
"You stupid dolt! That's not a weed. You've pulled out a petunia plant."
Once more the quirt finds it target as the Major apologises to my Master.
"I'm sorry about that Lucien, Stupid slaves; you can't take your eyes away from them for a second. Now you were saying?"
Once more they lower their voices and continue their discussion. Is it my imagination or does my Master wear a look of concern? However, after a few minutes, he seems to be re-assured by the major and once more I'm told to "Walk on!"
My Master doesn't appear to be in a hurry and he allows me to proceed at a leisurely pace. I am grateful to him for this as the day is very hot and I'm soon sweating profusely. Wisely my Master had raised the canopy of the cart before leaving home and he is protected from the heat of the early afternoon sun. I on the other hand am fully exposed to its intensity.
I don't know what business it is that brings my Master into the city, but we move through the main central square and into a place I recall with bitterness. It is the law courts where I'd been enslaved and the forge where I'd been collared and branded. I watch with some sympathy as seven, naked, young men are whip-driven, weeping, to the forge for their enslavement.
My Master pulls me to a halt and climbing out of the trap waits as an attendant slave hurries forward to offer assistance. The slave tethers me to a ring fastened into the wall and I hear him ask if I'm to be given water to drink. My Master doesn't like me to drink while I'm in harness - he claims it makes me sluggish -and on one occasion, I'd heard him instruct Cato to restrict my water intake prior to harnessing me. But today, my Master makes a concession to the hot weather and to my obvious stress and gives his permission to the slave to give me water - but sparingly - and to assist me to piss if necessary.
I watch as my Master hurries across the courtyard to where his lawyer, Simon Barrow is waiting him. I watch as they engage in earnest conversation before disappearing through a door and into the court building. I'm now left to wait for his return.
Waiting for the master's return is perhaps the worst part of a pony's day. The sheer boredom of standing immobilised in the one spot is mind numbing. The wait might be a long one or it might be a short one; the duration is totally dependent on the Master's needs. This afternoon it is to be a long wait. There are however breaks to relieve the monotony.
Sympathetically, the attendant slave brings me water and, because my wrists are fastened to the trap's shafts, he assists me to drink. Then he helps me to pee. He holds a bucket beneath me and uses his free hand to hold my cock and guide my stream into it. I feel for both of us. Our common degradation is on public display and I think how odious it is must be for the slave to have this revolting task included in his list of duties. It diminishes both of us but then I remember we are slaves and in the eyes of our masters nothing demeans us. I'm grateful to the slave but as both of us are forbidden to speak, I can't thank him vocally and therefore I use a slave's unspoken language to do so and smile at him. He returns my smile.
Suddenly the silence is shattered by an ear-piercing shriek of pain from within the forge. My blood runs cold as I realise this is the first of the seven new slaves being branded. Spaced over a period of regular intervals there are six more heartrending cries as the other six are initiated into slavery and left to cry for their loss of freedom.
The wait is proving to be a long one and inevitably I begin to fidget to relieve the strain of my enforced immobility. Then I look up and notice another four miserable, naked wretches being driven to the forge for processing. I show little interest in them and return to the long wait for my Master's return.
Three more times I hear the pain-filled cries of the newly branded and on my reckoning there is now only one remaining new slave to be branded.
Boredom has overtaken me and I wonder, "What is taking my Master so long? Where is he?"
These thoughts are interrupted by angry shouting and looking up I see one of the new slaves has broken free and is racing desperately across the yard in my direction. He is pursued by two slaves from the forge and they are joined by the slave who had tended to me. All three wrestle the runaway to the ground but before he disappears under the scrum of their bodies, I recognise him.
Unbelievingly, I see the face of my Master, Lucien Barrois. Incomprehensively, he is now a naked slave being hauled back into the forge for his branding and collaring.
I now have a new Master, Guy Maratier and my old Master Lucien Barrois is no more. He has ceased to exist and has been replaced by the slave, Rafe.
How do I feel about my former master's downfall? At first I was jubilant; what slave wouldn't take pleasure in seeing his tormentor reduced so low; to see his Master as a naked, collared and branded slave like himself. I rejoiced in that and as he was fastened to the cart alongside of me and made to run naked through the city streets I revelled in his shame. I felt great satisfaction as our new Master's whip slashed across his ass to urge him on and in doing so I was barely aware of my own pain as I too was whipped. There was poetic justice in all this and I was overjoyed at his humiliation.
But then, as we ran together something strange happened. From some place deep within him I heard him say "I'm sorry". And this apology was to be repeated later as he waited for his introductory caning. Instinctively, I knew it was heartfelt and genuine. In his own suffering, he now saw the injustice he'd done to all his slaves. Too late to be of practical use either him or his former slaves, it was never-the-less an admission of his guilt; a guilt that is shared by all slave-owners.
At that moment, I felt a softening of my attitude towards him. I knew from my own experiences what he must be feeling. The shock at his loss of freedom, the degradation of being turned into a naked slave, the awful shame and pain of being branded and collared and the fearful uncertainty of his future. I had been taken to all those places and now I felt for him.
I shared his humiliation as he was welcomed home by his former neighbours and I stood beside him as the loathsome Major Swanston played with our genitals and toyed with our erections.
I had watched as he received his welcome to the household caning from Cato and I recognised his pain. But that didn't concern me too much. Pain is an integral part of a slave's life - it looms large in our thinking and its threat is ever-present- and Rafe will now have to accept this fact.
There are worse torments ahead of him. I'd overheard our new Master say that his new slave is to spend time at La Foret - learning to be a real slave. I know from personal experience what that entails and what waits for him in the fields and slave barracks of that cursed place. I wonder will there be a Jake to help and guide Rafe as he adjusts to the rigours of becoming a common, work slave.
Yet there is hope for Rafe. I'd overheard our Master's future plans for us. Like me, Rafe is to become a pony and eventually we are to run together as a matched pair. I look forward to that and to his company in my stall. It will be a welcome alternative to the great loneliness I now feel and perhaps there is even the possibility of that closeness I'd once shared with Jake. I hope so.
But that is in the future. My former master, now shorn of his hair and in chains, stands naked like a bewildered and frightened little boy outside my stall waiting as Cato unlocks the door for him to enter. He is to share my stall for tonight and there is a look of fearful uncertainty on his tear-stained face.
Inexplicably, I feel compassion for this man who, as my Master had so thoughtlessly used me as his slave. Tonight perhaps I - as a fellow slave - can give him the same comfort and support that I had once gratefully received from a big-hearted slave named Jake.
To be continued....