"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES" A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 29: 'The Journey Continues'
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for mature readers and should only be read by adults over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 29: "The Journey Continues"
"HUP! HUP!"
Our Master's exhortation to move faster is re-enforced by his whip. Poor Norge is the principal recipient of its fiery sting as he is the one pulling the trap; Pollux and I are just running in transit and we provide no motive power to assist him. Nevertheless it's important that we keep pace with Norge and so he applies the whip to us also.
Rounding a bend in the meandering road, we are confronted by a long, gradual, uphill pull that will surely tax Norge. How I wish I was in harness to assist him in this. But I'm not and he must tackle the incline on his own.
Our Master, Guy Maratier is accompanied by his son Etienne who is now the scion and heir to the new Maratier dynasty. This is their first visit to La Foret and their excitement is all too obvious. For today they are to lay claim to the vast agricultural holding founded by Jean-Marc Barrois several centuries ago. The incredible wealth enjoyed by Guy and Etienne today had its beginnings here and although their surname is Maratier they are direct descendants of Jean-Marc through Guy's paternal grandmother, the former Charlotte Barrois.
This is a road they are unfamiliar with but it is one that Norge and I know well. We have travelled along it many times as driver and pony in my former life as Lucien Barrois, the proud owner of my former plantation.
Today, I travel back to La Foret not as the once proud Lucien Barrois but as the humble slave, Rafe.
"HUP! HUP!"
As we run along the flat approaching the road's incline, the exhortation to speed up is given once more and our naked backs and asses feel the impatient sting of the whip. As I run I can overhear our Master and his son in conversation.
"Dad, can I ask a question? Why are you whipping the pony and the others slaves so much?"
"To make them run faster, son. Do you see the hill in front of us? Well, we need to make sure the trap has built up enough speed to reach the top of the hill. We don't want it stopping half way up do we? If the pony stops on the hill it will be very hard to get him started again. It's easier to make sure the pony has enough speed to get him over the hill. So as we are travelling along a flat stretch of road before we get to the hill, I'm building up speed. It's easier for the pony this way, only he doesn't know it and I have to use the whip to make him understand this and to make him run faster."
Certainly the whip encourages us to run faster but as it's Norge who must build up the speed to provide the momentum to get us to the top of the hill, it's his body that is whipped the most. Our Master carefully aims his whip at Norge's unprotected body at a spot just below his ass. The tip snakes in between Norge's legs and makes cruel contact with his low hanging balls. Poor Norge! His reaction is immediate. The bit in his mouth prevents him vocalising his pain but his sudden lurch forward tells me of his suffering. Once more his balls are 'tickled' and our Master is pleased. He has successfully coaxed that little bit extra effort out of his pony
Fortunately for all three of us the weather is mild; the recent long heatwave seems to have finished and today the temperature is more comfortable. As we run the sun is pleasantly warm on our backs and we are only sweating moderately. And to date there haven't been any hills to challenge us. But I know this road well and I know this is the first of several hills between here and the plantation and this is the gentlest of them.
Spurred on by the whip, we quickly build up speed on the flat stretch of road before we begin out assault on the hill. Initially, this speed assists us but then, half way up the hill, we begin to flag. Our legs grow heavy from the constant pounding on the roadway, our breathing becomes more laboured and rasping and our oxygen starved lungs feel they are at bursting point. Now we are sweating more copiously and it trickles down our tiring bodies. How easy it would be to just give in and stop and several times I feel myself at that point. But stopping isn't an option; our Master won't allow it and we are constantly scourged by his driving whip. I'm at the point of exhaustion yet the whip encourages me to seek out and draw on hidden reserves of strength I didn't know I possessed.
I recall Norge's recent words about the whip and how it drives us to greater effort on our Master's behalf. Today I'm experiencing this for myself and in the coming months it will become more commonplace as I toil under the whips of the plantation's black overseers.
Our charge finally carries us over the hill's crest and we now begin a more leisurely descent into a pleasant, protected valley. This part of the country is very picturesque and its undulating terrain adds to its overall beauty. The hillsides are heavily forested while the valley itself is a patchwork of fields, vineyards and orchards in varying shades of green. These fields are spread out on either side of a deep river which provides irrigation for the growing crops.
Being close to the city, the farm holdings here are small - the larger, broad acre estates similar to La Foret are further out - but they are richly fertile, highly productive and capable of producing three or four crops of vegetables per year. It is here that all the vegetables, fruits and grapes needed for the city are produced and this area justifiably bears the title of - 'bread basket of the city'.
Our journey takes us through an area of lush, green market-gardens, vineyards and orchards. These are irrigated by water drawn from the nearby river and kept moving through an intricate system of water channels by strategically placed water-wheels driven by treadmills. Chained to these treadmills are naked, predominantly white slaves whose only purpose in life is to mindlessly and endlessly walk on the treadmills in a Sisyphean effort to ensure a constant supply of water flows through to the market-gardens and orchards. And everywhere around us there are more naked slaves toiling under the lash of their impatient overseers?
The crops growing in the fields are at various stages of development. Everywhere, slaves labour under the harsh supervision of their black overseers picking tomatoes, capsicums, peas, beans and melons of all varieties. In other fields slaves are digging up potatoes, onions and other root vegetables or cutting lettuces, broccoli, cabbages and cauliflowers. And in every field more slaves are busy placing the produce into crates and loading them onto drays for transport to the nearby processing sheds.
In those fields where the crops are not yet ready for harvesting, other slaves are toiling, under the lash, hoeing between the rows of growing vegetables or crawling on their hands and knees pulling weeds.
On my previous trips out to La Foret, I'd driven through this valley at a leisurely pace so that I could enjoy its extraordinary beauty and its bountiful harvests. To my ascetic mind it was a poet's idyll or the pastoral inspiration for a musician.
I had always enjoyed this part of the journey on the way out to my plantation. But today, for the first time, I see its darker underbelly. It has assumed a sinister aspect that I'd never bothered to notice before. Today, I see its true ugliness; for all around me there are slaves toiling under the direction of their overseers. Instead of happy carefree laughter, I hear the abusive shouting of the overseers and the groans of their wretched charges. There is no birdsong, no bleating or lowing of farm animals - just the hiss and crack of whips demanding and extracting more work from the miserable slaves already labouring at the edge of endurance.
For the first time my eyes and ears are open to the obscenity that is slavery. Previously, my vision had been blinkered by my own ownership of slaves. But now that I am a slave, the scales have fallen from my eyes and I am seeing the grim reality of my 'changed circumstances' being played out all around me. Now, I am a slave and soon I will be toiling in some field in a very similar manner to these piteous wretches.
Wherever I look I am confronted by the horrific insight into the slavery that awaits me at La Foret. I don't know how many slaves labour in this beautiful valley; their numbers are too great for me to accurately judge but by my estimation there are several hundred just in this area alone. Their tasks are varied. Some are bent double harvesting the crops while others are hoeing or are simply crawling on all fours busily hand weeding between the rows of growing vegetables. And beyond the market- gardens, other slaves are picking fruit from the trees or grapes from the vines. Its harvest time and the whole scene is one of intense activity.
The market gardeners and orchardists are delighted; it has been an exceptionally good growing season and the yields are bountiful. It promises to be a very profitable year for them.
The crops are yielding well above average and the farmers are worried they'll not be able to harvest them before some rot in the ground or wither on the vines and the trees. Therefore in the name of increased profits, it has become necessary to extend the slaves' working day and to employ additional overseers on a casual basis to drive them to greater exertion. Thus the slaves are made to work longer and harder and they are paying a cruel price for Nature's bounty to the farmers.
But these are the lucky slaves. Their labours are as nothing compared to their unfortunate brethren who plough the fields and haul the produce from the fields to the packing sheds.
No sooner is a field harvested than it is ploughed over and made ready for the next crop. As we trot along the road we pass several such fields being prepared for these new crops. I watch as the single furrow ploughs move unceasingly back and forth across the fields. Each is pulled by two brawny slaves - their heads bowed by the heavy wooden yoke resting across their shoulders - who strain into their leather harness to keep the ploughshares moving through the resisting soil. Their lean, stringy bodies are contorted by the stress of this unnatural labour and their muscles and sinews appear stretched to breaking point.
And each pair is under the direction of a plough-boy - a young, black apprentice overseer armed with a whip. He walks alongside the plough-oxen offering encouragement to them with both loud, abusive shouting and the liberal application of his whip. I look and listen as one unfortunate white ox is castigated by his young, black over lord.
"You stupid boy! PULL! PUT YOUR BACK INTO IT! Move your lazy ass."
As we continue down the road, we pass columns of slave-drawn, flat-top drays moving in both directions. Those moving in one direction are loaded with freshly harvested fruit and vegetables and are on their way to the packing sheds. Others, travelling from the opposite direction are empty and are returning to the fields to pick up yet another load. Each of these dray-carts is drawn by a team of twenty, heavy duty draft slaves under the direction and whips of their slave-drivers.
The heavily laden drays move slowly as the sweating, draft slaves pull and strain to the limits of their physical endurance. To encourage them in their efforts they are continually lashed by their overseers. By contrast, the empty drays move quickly and it is evident that the slaves drawing these are enjoying a welcome respite from the heavy pulling. However, this respite is to be all too brief and soon they'll be straining into their yokes and harnesses hauling yet another heavy load back to the packing sheds.
Master skilfully guides his trap between the two lines of drays and slows us to a walk. I'm now given a better view of the slave teams. These miserable wretches work in teams of twenty and they are yoked in pairs and harnessed four abreast under the control and direction of their young overseers.
What I see fills me with horror for I now realise this could be my fate when I'm working at La Foret. I see the five ranks each of four naked slaves yoked together in pairs. Their heads are obscured by their heavy, wooden yokes and their bodies are bent forward over timber pushing bars to which their hands are manacled. Their strong backs and legs bulge with overdeveloped muscles, their asses are exposed to full view and their anus's wink and pucker from the strain of pulling their heavy loads. I look with pity at the dreadful state of these wretched creatures.
Unable to speak by the wooden gags placed between their teeth, the only sounds they make are the grunts, snorts and farting noises of their exertions. Their backs and rumps wear the crisscross pattern of the whip and some of these stripes are evidently fresh and are still bleeding.
The stench from their bodies is nauseating and it churns my stomach.
As we move along the road I notice the low, cage-like buildings which are strategically spaced at regular intervals throughout the fields. I had noticed these buildings previously in passing but I'd never paid them any attention. Today I look at them anew and observe them in greater detail.
The walls of these buildings are built from strong, re-enforced concrete with an open front enclosed by thick metal bars which expose the occupants to the elements. The roof is made of heavy, corrugated sheeting as a protection against the rain and the concrete floor is covered with straw. These are the sleeping quarters for the field slaves. With their usual business acumen, the canny farmers have worked out that it is more time efficient to have the slaves housed `in situ' rather than move them back and forth to a central slave barracks on the individual farms. This way, no time is lost in getting the slaves into the fields. They estimate with this saving in time, the slaves have at least an extra hour each day to toil in the fields.
Next to each of these buildings are composting pits which deal with all the extraneous plant material left over from the harvesting and the slaves' bodily wastes. Eventually, these rot down into the rich compost which is then used as fertiliser for the vegetable crops. And even as I look there are sweating, naked slaves busily working up to their knees and waists in these pits turning over this material to allow for quicker composting. The pungent odour of rotting, organic matter permeates the whole area and adds to the appalling squalor of the scenes being played out all around me.
Gradually, we move away from the market-gardens into the orchards that cover the gentle slopes of the hills all the way up to the forest borderline. Many varieties of fruit are grown here and over the previous weeks the apricots, peaches, nectarines, cherries and other stone fruits have been harvested; now it is the apples that are ready for picking.
This part of the trip out to La Foret had always delighted me and I'd never hurried my journey. I took my time travelling through the orchards and I'd allowed Norge to walk at his own pace. This section of the road is an avenue shaded by tall poplars standing as sentinels on either side of the road. I look beyond the poplars into the adjacent apple orchards.
These are a hive of activity as slaves busy themselves picking the apples and delivering them to the waiting drays standing at the roadside. The apples are all handpicked and this is a selling point in the city's shops where they are proudly promoted as having been environmentally harvested without the use of machines. Slaves stand on trestles picking the rosy red apples from among the soft green foliage before carefully placing them into large, wicker baskets which, when full, are then carried by yet more slaves out to the waiting drays.
From my position alongside Norge I hear our young Master, Etienne plying his father with numerous questions about the apple harvest. Our Master commands Norge to stop while he explains the operations to his son and I find myself standing alongside a waiting team of draft slaves shuffling impatiently as the bins on their dray are filled.
I look in disgust at the dreadful state of these wretched creatures.
Their unwashed, sweat stained bodies are coated with a patina of fine dust, their matted hair hangs in long knotted strands and their beards are unkempt. It's difficult to say when they were last washed. My guess is not since the last downpour of rain some weeks ago. The overdeveloped muscles of their shoulders and upper torsos give them a grotesque appearance and their powerful buttocks are spread wide allowing their cocks and balls to hang low between their muscular legs. They fidget as insects swarm over their bodies feasting on their accumulated filth as others hover over them impatiently waiting for their turn to settle and feed. Futilely, the slaves shake their bodies and stamp their feet in an effort to dislodge these pests.
They remind me of a team of docile oxen and it really is an apt description of them. For like oxen, these slaves are mere beasts-of-burden condemned to spend their days in mindless, repetitious monotony as they plod between the orchards and the packing sheds delivering their loads of freshly picked apples. As I look into their expressionless faces, I see their eyes are devoid of life and I wonder what thoughts, if any, they have. Have they been so desensitised by their soul-destroying labours and so brutalised by their overseers that they no longer have any humanity left within them? Have they truly become little more than soulless animals?
Even as I watch they begin to urinate almost as if on cue. I don't know this but instinctively they do; the dray is now fully loaded and within a few minutes they'll be whipped back into action and driven to haul it to the packing sheds. So they piss now while they are stationary rather than when they are moving.
As I look on in dismay, an overseer climbs onto a seat at the front of the transport and begins shouting to the slaves to make ready. Four young, assistant overseers take up their positions - two walking on either side of the team of now agitated draft slaves. The slaves know their rest period is over and that they are required to haul the transport and its heavy load to the distant packing sheds - a slow, laborious trip of thirty minutes' duration. The driver shouts the order to "MOVE" and his young, assistants uncoil their long, vicious whips and lash the draft slaves into action.
The driver shouts "HYUP! HYUP! HYUP!" and the slaves begin to pull as one. They bite down onto their wooden gags and their bodies strain under the heavy load, I watch their muscles tense as the wagon begins its laborious journey. As the transport rolls forward the overseers enthusiastically apply their whips to the straining backs of their charges. The young overseers attack their task with vigour. They are eager to prove their worth to their older peers and they do enjoy the authority they have been given over these wretched slaves. Enthusiastically, their whips find their easy targets in the straining backs of the draft slaves and they apply them with all the strength their young arms can muster.
The slaves have no other option than to respond by pulling even harder. Now the driver quickly brings his own long whip into play. It is capable of reaching even the slaves in the front row and he cracks this whip over the heads of the straining, draft slaves below him to further encourage them in their labours. Inevitably this whip too is applied to the slaves' bodies. Lashed from above and from the side the unhappy slaves respond by lurching forward in their yokes and harnesses and they pull with all their strength. I can see that the slaves' bodies are under enormous strain and that they have no other choice but to comply with the shouted commands of their drivers.
With every muscle and tendon in their bodies stretched to the limit, the overseers still aren't satisfied with their efforts. Impatiently, their driver exhorts them to.
"PULL! PULL! Put your backs into it."
He adds emphasis to his command by viciously lashing out at the four slaves immediately below him. These miserable wretches aren't able to give voice to their pain but they respond by thrusting their bodies forward in the vain hope of avoiding the lash.
I watch as the dray lurches forward and begins its lumbering journey to the packing sheds. The sweating, straining slaves grunt and groan with the exertion of their labours as they plod forward in bovine docility.
As the dray slowly disappears around a bend in the road, our Master commands Norge to.
Walk On!"
Previously, I've always enjoyed my journey through the "breadbasket of the city". But then I was a slave owner and insensitive to the cruel injustices of slavery. I'd accepted these as a necessary part of everyday life and a slave's suffering aroused little or no sympathy within me and I had no compassion for their plight.
Today, as I travel along this road, I don't see the beauty of the valley that had always inspired me. Today, for the first time I see its true ugliness and it has taken my own enslavement to open my heart and mind to the appalling suffering of my slave brothers.
Today, I'm glad to leave the valley behind me and I wonder when next I'll travel on this road. The city is a two hours journey behind us and "La Foret" is still an hour away. I hear Master tell his son that they'll soon stop for a picnic lunch and to rest and water the pony.
Soon, Master has found the ideal spot for his picnic lunch and he directs Norge into a shady grove of willow trees lining the river bank before halting him. He clambers out of the driver's seat and unfastens me from the shafts. He has chosen me to serve him and his son, Etienne as they dine.
To be continued..........