"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES" A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 33 "The Blacksmith's Forge"
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) "To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"
Chapter 33: "The Blacksmith's Forge"
Prologue:
Suddenly, the forge has taken on a fearsome aspect. As a lonely boy, I'd always been fascinated by the activity of the place and had spent much of my time there watching as my grandfather's blacksmith worked at the anvil.
The blacksmith was a slave and I had been popular with him. Doubtless, this was because I was Lucien Barrois, the "young Master" and he'd shown me the respect my exalted birth demanded. He'd worked patiently with me and over the years he taught me some rudimentary tricks of his trade. Through him I'd learned to shoe a horse and to make and repair the simplest of tools.
I've always thought there is something primitive - almost primeval - about a blacksmith's forge and anvil. The work is basic and requires brute strength. Yet it demands a degree of skill and artistry that only a good blacksmith possesses.
In my childish imagination, I'd seen our forge as the heavenly realm of Thor, the Nordic god of thunder and the anvil as the place where he'd hammered out his lightning bolts. Lately, as I think of Norge, I'm reminded of these memories. Just a short time ago - on his twenty-third birthday in fact - he'd told me his real name was Thorvald. But more commonly, his family and closest friends called him by the familiar Thor.
In my ignorance and thoughtlessness, I had stripped him of this birth name which is so full of Nordic poetic beauty and given him the more prosaic one of Norge. Today, this is a source of shame for me.
I had enjoyed working in the forge and in my teenage years, I would randomly visit there, strip to the waist and work alongside the blacksmith and his two young slave assistants. In my youthful exuberance, I would pace my efforts to those of the assistants but there was one major difference between us. If they made a mistake the blacksmith would take his formidable strap to their asses. However, mine was sacrosanct and out of bounds to his chastisement.
Throughout my teen years, I enjoyed the forge and the physical activity it afforded me. I relished the hard effort of good honest labour and a healthy sweating but if I am truthful with myself it was something other than this that enticed me back time and again. This was the sheer eroticism of the place.
The blacksmith and his assistant slaves were naturally naked and how I envied them their comfortable nakedness in their hot working environment. I wished I too could be as naked as they were. But, I was free and I had to keep my pants on and content myself with working shirtless. But I never tired of looking at their sweat soaked bodies liberally smeared with the grime of their work.
The charcoals glowed red-hot on the hearth piercing the gloom of the forge and bathing the bodies of the blacksmith and his helpers in a reddish glow. It was so erotic to watch the play of their powerful muscles under the shiny, red gleam of their sweatiness and it was just as well that I wore trousers for my cock would have betrayed my real interest in them.
Yes, I loved the forge and I revelled in the hard physical exercise it afforded me. I was stirred by the erotic spectacle of the three, naked slaves working at the hearth and the anvil. In my teenage years, I was intoxicated by the sights, the sounds and the smell of the place. I loved the warm glow of the hearth, the "whoosh-whoosh" as the bellows were pumped, the loud sounds of hammering on the anvil and the acrid smell of red-hot metal as it was plunged into a vat of cold water to cool.
Today, I return to the forge as the slave, Rafe and I view the forge from a very different perspective. I no longer see it as the warm inviting place of my boyhood or the powerfully erotic one of my teenage years.
It has lost its charm and assumed a sinister aspect. Now I see it as a scene from 'Dante's Inferno' where tortured souls, who have abandoned all hope, wait in terror for some hellish torment to visit them.
I stand alongside Pollux and like him I am wide eyed with terror. In front of us the handle of our Master's new brand protrudes from the glowing charcoal on the hearth and we know that soon we are to be branded.
This forge now reminds me of my visit to the forge adjacent to the courtrooms on the day of my enslavement. I relive the horrors of that day and I re-imagine the indescribable, red hot pain of my first branding. I begin to tremble violently and I give way to weeping and even though my Master isn't yet present I begin to plead. I want to be spared this branding but even as cry, I know nothing will save me. My Master has decided I am to be the first of his slaves to wear the new Maratier brand.
We wait on my Master's and his head overseer's arrivals. But we are under the firm control of a senior black overseer and the young apprentice, Sir Conn.
Suddenly, a whip cuts cruelly across my naked ass and I hear Sir Conn's order to
"Shut the fuck up, you dumb ass slave!"
My yelp is more of surprise than pain and I am shocked into silent. Even though the young apprentice has a powerful whip arm and I do feel the sting of his lash it was meant to quieten me and it has the desired effect.
Suddenly and unexpectedly, I lose control of my bladder and humiliatingly I piss myself. Shamefaced, I now stand in a puddle of my own urine.
Through the rawness of my emotions, I hear Sir Conn and the other overseer laugh at my very public embarrassment.
And I am also aware that Master Etienne is present and staring at me. I see the look of contempt on his face and I hear his simple, boyish exclamation of disgust.
"YUK!!!"
This speaks volumes for how low I have sunk.
Tears of sorrow and regret mist my eyes as I watch the major domo, Colton escort my Master and Claymore Jackson up the front steps of the porch and through the wide double doors into La Forˆt's grand, colonial mansion.
Sadly, I reflect that once all of this had been mine and just a few weeks ago, I would've been welcomed by Colton as the Master of the house. And not for the first time since my enslavement, I think of all I have now lost. However, standing before my beloved La Forˆt, not as its proud owner, Lucien Barrois but at as the naked slave, Rafe is the most poignant of these memories. My sense of loss is made all the more unbearable by the knowledge that never again will I be permitted to enter into the house where I'd spent my boyhood with my beloved grandparents. From deep within my breast a strangled sob wells up and my tears begin to flow.
I can well imagine the sharp intake of my Master's breath as he enters into his new home for the first time. No doubt, he is left breathless by the elegance, the splendour and the understated richness of the carefully chosen furnishings and art treasures which are the hallmarks of my grandmother's good taste.
When refurbishing the stately house, she eschewed all that was vulgar and gaudy. She rejected the flamboyance and tastelessness of the "nouveau riche" and she chose carefully. The soft pastel colours of the walls harmonise with the rich floor coverings and elegant drapes to serve as a suitable backdrop to the red mahogany furniture; each piece of which is a beautiful work of art in its own right.
My Master can't fail to be impressed by my grandmother's legacy!
But I'm not allowed to wallow in my self-pity. Time is moving on and Pollux and I have to be prepared for our brandings. The black overseer, left in charge of Pollux and me by Claymore is anxious to move us on. He uncurls his whip and snaps it at us without making contact with our bodies. This is a gesture meant to gain our attention and he now drives us away from the house and out through the gardens towards the utilitarian area of the plantation where all the ancillary buildings such as the grist-mills, storage and packing sheds and the stables where the slaves are housed overnight are located. And of course the forge!
Wisely my ancestor, Jean-Marc de Barrois had placed this area of the plantation far from the house and gardens which are the private preserve of family. He'd been anxious that nothing intrude upon the peace and harmony of his home and he had no wish to be confronted with the ugly realities of the slavery upon which his prosperity depended. So he'd chosen a spot that is "out of sight and out of mind" and with great foresight he'd planted a thick belt of trees around the whole area to discreetly screen it from his view.
Two centuries on, those trees have now reached majestic proportions and they provide a pleasant vista from the porch and gardens of the distant mansion. From there, it is very easy to forget the existence of the wretched slaves who toil ceaselessly to enrich the occupants of that house.
Yet that isn't quite true. Occasionally, at the height of the summer heat and with the winds blowing from a particular direction, they carry upon them the faint, sickly-sweet, animal-like smell that one always associates with a large body of slaves. When this happens - and fortunately these occasions are rare - it is necessary to close the windows and doors of the house to shut out the noisome odour.
Pollux and I walk ahead of our overseer. He drives us towards this area by constantly snapping his whip at our heels in much the same way as a drover urges a mob of cattle onwards.
And Sir Conn and Master Etienne walk towards the forge some distance ahead of us with the outline of their bodies broken up by the shimmering, watery, heat haze.
It takes us perhaps fifteen minutes to walk from the house to the work area. I know from experience it would take a pony and trap half this time - or even less - depending on how hard the pony is driven. And even though the sting has gone out of the mid-afternoon sun, Pollux and I are perspiring freely. Although how much of this can be attributed to the day's heat or our mounting fear of the branding iron it is hard to say. But our sweat combines with the road dust on our bodies and coats us in a thin patina of grime and I look forward to my hosing down.
There are no ablution blocks as such for the slaves. However, there are a number of concrete slabs, each capable of holding twenty or so slaves standing upright, and each is equipped with faucets and hoses where the slaves are hosed down and cleaned as required. And I assume Pollux and I are being taken to one of these for our hosing down.
We pass through the belt of screening trees into the compound. This is really the working hub of La Forˆt and even though I have been here countless times, I look around and see things very differently. Today, I see everything through the eyes of a newly arrived slave.
The place is a hive of noisy, frenetic activity and everywhere I look there are slaves labouring under the direction and whips of their black overseers. The lime washed, stone buildings gleam brilliantly white in the sun's glare and they are grouped around the four sides of a central square devoid of any shade. Ominously, standing in the middle of this square are the pillars of authority and the instruments of punishment; the stocks and pillories for holding the minor offender and the unwilling and the whipping posts and frames for the recalcitrant and the troublemaker among the slave population. In the past, I'd barely noticed them. Today, they take on a fearsome aspect and I am terrified.
Dominating this square are the two mills and their associated packaging and storage sheds and with harvesting now moving into full swing these are being made ready. Inside the two mills, slaves are hard at work either replacing timber braces on the massive treadmills or greasing the mechanism of the huge grinding stones.
I remember Claymore telling my Master he'll use me on one of the treadmills and I shudder at the thought. I have witnessed these in operation many times in the past on my tours of inspection and I know what confronts me. I will be just one of twenty slaves who'll be chained, hand and feet, in place and made to walk endlessly on the one spot and continually urged to maintain the wheel's constant speed by an overseer's lash.
When operational, the mills are hot and the slaves sweat profusely. And to add to their misery, the air within the mills is thick with pollen and fine dust particles which coat their bodies, irritate their eyes, clog their nostrils and torment their parched throats. The work is arduous, never-ending and soul-destroying. In the past, I have watched unmoved as these pitiful wretches were reduced to mindless, plodding beasts-of-burden. Soon, I am to share their fate.
And fronting onto the square are the slave barracks or stables where the slaves spend their nights. Fortress like in their construction, it is a proud boast that no slave has ever escaped from their grim interiors once the overseers have locked the doors for the night.
Unlike the mills and their ancillary sheds which have been rebuilt several times over the intervening years, the stables are the original ones built by Jean-Marc de Barrois two centuries ago.
Because of their venerable age, they are deemed to be of great cultural and historical significance and placed on the National Heritage Register for preservation and conservation. This happened back in my grandfather's day and had made him very proud. Over the years, he'd spent a considerable amount of money in maintaining them and after his death I had continued with the practice.
As La Foret's owner I was always concerned with their outward appearance but never with their interiors. Indeed, I can't recall when I last entered into them. The squalor and stench of their interiors had always repulsed me.
And tucked away in a corner of the square, between one of the mills and a stable, is the forge.
We pass by and I'm close enough to see that Sir Conn is talking to the blacksmith relaying Claymore Jackson's instructions onto him. Then I see him hand something to the blacksmith; it is the branding iron. The blacksmith examines it minutely before walking to the hearth and burying its head deep within the bed of hot coals. He instructs one of his assistants to pump the bellows to fan the dull red embers into a glowing, bright red heat. It is a new, unused branding iron and needs to be well heated before it can be used for the first time.
We move out of the square to the rear of the slave stables. This is an area I'd always considered unsavoury and seldom visited. This is where the ablution slabs and the sanitation pits are located and the air is offensive to the nostrils. This isn't surprising when you consider the large number of slaves who use both the washing slabs and the pits.
Routinely every morning the black overseers drive their charges to the sanitation pits to attend to the most basic of their bodily needs; theoretically this eliminates the need for relief breaks as they work .And this is repeated just before the slaves are locked away in their stables for the night in the hope that they won't spoil their sleeping quarters. At least this is the theory which, more often than not, differs in practice.
I'd been fastidious in maintaining a small degree of cleanliness among my slaves. I had required they be hosed down periodically to remove the grime, the dust and the mud of their labours from their bodies. Primarily, I did this to minimise their smell; an unwashed slave tends to "stink to high heaven". The long hours spent toiling in the fields meant they sweated a lot and of course any unscheduled calls of nature during working hours were taken in situ as the slave worked. The rhythm of the work pattern mustn't be broken - overseers made no concessions for a slave's needs; therefore should a slave need to urinate or defecate, he just pissed or shat as he worked. It was imperative that he stay in line and never break step with his fellows.
I had always admired Claymore Jackson his orderly mind. Appearances are important to him and the one thing that always angers him is an unsightly line of slaves straggling across a field - like a "donkey's breakfast" - is how he'd once described this to me. He insists his overseers ensure their charges stay abreast of one another as they worked. He demands uniformity and anything other than this offends him.
More than once he has told me his reasons for this and I know from his comments that ascetics play an important part in his thinking. To his mind an orderly line of slaves working abreast of one another shows good management and control whereas slaves working higgledy-piggledy across a field suggests indifference and, even worse, a lack of discipline. And Claymore will never accept either from his overseers or the slaves under his charge.
He'd added that having the slaves work line abreast with one another ensures they all work at the same pace, that it maximises their effort and is the most efficient use of their labour. And this makes the overseers task that much easier. They - and not the slaves - set the pace of the labour and they ensure it is maintained with their whips. A slave working in a straight line with his fellows knows he must keep up with them and not fall behind or he'll suffer the painful consequences of the overseers' whips.
And Claymore is correct; I couldn't argue with his sound logic. A gang of slaves, all working together as a single unit and moving forward in a straight line is more uniform and pleasing to the eye than a gang of slaves scattered all over a field.
The overseer directs Pollux and me onto one of the ablution slabs and orders us to place our hands on top of our heads. Fearfully, we stand and wait as he adjusts a nozzle on the end of a hose and turns on a faucet. We catch our breath as we are blasted with a stream of icy cold water powerful enough to knock us off our feet.
Futilely, we scramble to regain our footing but each time our efforts are thwarted as, once more, we are hit with a solid stream of water from the hose and sent sprawling to the ground. The overseer is playing with us and the sound of his scornful laughter rings in my ears. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the hose is turned off, we are ordered to our feet and despite the day's heat, we stand shivering as we drip dry.
We dry quickly in the sun's rays and soon we are ready to be taken to the forge.
As we enter into the blacksmith's workshop, I am greeted with the hot blast from the forge. My gaze sweeps around the interior of the forge taking note of everything. It's remarkable how the human eye can absorb so much detail in a very short time. Even more remarkable is how much quicker the brain can process what the eyes sees.
The first person I notice is the blacksmith. He is white and of course he is a slave, and as such, he is naked and collared. But as the blacksmith - and a highly skilled one - he'd always enjoyed a special standing at La Foret. Uniquely, my grandfather had given him a name, "smithy", by which he is known to both slaves and overseers. But I often thought it wasn't so much a name as a designation of what he did. But as Lucien, I'd also called him "smithy" like my grandfather.
As you would expect "smithy" is a tall, powerfully built man with a barrel chest and an imposing physique. Long years of hammering at the anvil have given his arms and legs the hardness of granite. I'm not sure of his age - nobody bothers with a slave's age although it would be recorded somewhere in the plantation's records - but I would estimate it as the early-fifties. To be completely honest, in the past, I'd never considered his age. His closely cropped black hair is peppered with white but this doesn't detract from the impressiveness of his commanding stature. He is still a very imposing slave and I would think his presence on the auction block would bring strong bidding. His skills as a blacksmith add considerably to his value.
He looks at me and despite his obvious recognition of me he ignores me; after all I am just another new slave who has been brought to him for collaring and branding.
His two assistant slaves are busy in the background. One sweats profusely as he vigorously pumps the bellows fanning the embers on the hearth to a bright, red-hot intensity. It is then that I notice the handle of the branding iron protruding from the bed of flickering embers. And buried deep in the glowing red charcoal, the head of the iron is now being heated to a bright orange-red for use on Pollux and me. At the sight of the iron my eyes open wide with terror and my body trembles uncontrollably. And my belly turns to water as I anticipate the hellish pain of my Master's new brand searing itself into both my flesh and my consciousness.
It is said a slave never forgets the touch of the branding iron and that it is forever fixed in his mind. I can vouchsafe for this and though it is some weeks since my first branding at the courts, I have relived the terror and the indescribable agony of that awful event every day. My blistered flesh has healed and the large, capital letter "S" for slave is now crisply outlined on my left flank. However, my memory still festers with the pain I'd experienced and it is doubtful if that scab will ever heal.
The other slave works at a bench with his back to me. I can't see what he is doing but I see the strong muscles of his back at play as he hammers away at something metallic.
These two, young slaves, because of their strong physiques, had been chosen personally by my grandfather two years ago to serve as apprentices to "smithy". Grandfather was very foresighted and of course, he never missed an opportunity to make money from his slaves.
Early on he'd recognised that a qualified, blacksmith slave is a rare commodity and commanded a high price at auction. So he'd instituted a special programme to train young slaves in the skills of the forge and all other aspects of the blacksmith's trade. This training lasts approximately two years and these two latest graduates are nearing the end of their time in the forge. They are ready for sale and had I still been the Master of La Forˆt, they would have been long sold and their replacements now working with "smithy".
My fall from grace has delayed their sale. They fall under Claymore's jurisdiction and he has decided to leave them working with "smithy" until he has the opportunity to discuss their futures with the new owner of La Forˆt. Claymore had been scrupulously honest in all his dealings with both my grandfather and me and he now extends this honesty to Guy Maratier. However, he will discuss the two slaves with his new employer within the coming days and strongly recommend they be sold and replaced with two new apprentices. In fact, he has already chosen their replacements.
On entering the forge, Sir Conn moves quickly to assist the senior overseer in taking charge of us. I am amazed at the poise and self-assurance of the young apprentice overseer, He has only been at the plantation for several weeks and yet his bearing is both commanding and intimating. Claymore and I had chosen well in giving him a position as a trainee overseer. And the irony of this isn't lost on me.
His approach to Pollux and I is businesslike and leaves us in no doubt that he in charge of us. As Lucien, I would have seen him as impossibly opinionated and his cockiness would have angered me. And as Lucien, I would have moved very quickly to put him in his place.
But I'm not Lucien. I am the slave, Rafe and I am terrified of him. Contemptuously, he flicks his whip at our asses and orders us to assume the full display position. Pollux obviously shares my fear of Sir Conn and we hasten to obey.
And watching the young overseer with boyish admiration is the "young Master", Etienne. In the coming days, this admiration will quickly turn to a form of hero worship as Master Etienne trails behind Sir Conn almost as a second shadow.
At first, Sir Conn will resent the "young Master's" continuing presence as he goes about his duties and he will do all he can to discourage it. But a word from the wise from Claymore Jackson will convince him otherwise. Claymore Jackson - who has developed a fondness for his promising new apprentice - will tell him that the future of La Forˆt obviously lies with Guy Maratier's son and heir and that Conn, in his long-term interests, would do well to cultivate a close personal relationship with Etienne. He'll reminds Conn that there isn't that much difference in their ages and if he plays his cards right - well who knows?
He'll tell Conn that within a few years he hopes to retire to a small rural holding he owns - courtesy of the generosity of the former Barrois family - and to work it with a small herd of white slaves. Just to keep his hand in- so to speak.
And with Master Etienne on his side, Conn could very well be his successor.
Pollux and I are ignored as the two overseers talk together and "smithy" and his assistants go about their duties. I watch as "smithy" withdraws the branding iron from its bed of red hot coals and checks it to see if it is up to temperature. The brand glows a brilliant orange-red against the dark backdrop of the forge's walls and I am overcome with fear. My knees sag under the trembling weight of my body and I am on the verge of collapse. Then I hear myself weeping and I vaguely hear my disjointed pleas to be spared the iron. Pollux takes his cue from me and his wails join with mine to echo within the closed confines of the blacksmith's workshop.
Suddenly, a whip cuts cruelly across my naked ass and I hear Sir Conn's order to
"Shut the fuck up, you dumb ass slave!"
The unexpectedness of this shocks me into silence and my ass smarts from the force of the young overseer's whip and the power of his whip arm.
Then, suddenly and unexpectedly, I lose control of my bladder and humiliatingly I piss myself. Shamefaced, I now stand in a puddle of my own urine.
I hear Sir Conn and the other overseer laugh at my very public embarrassment and one of them - I don't know who - comments.
"It's hard to imagine that he was once the high and mighty Lucien Barrois. Now, he stands as a naked slave and pisses from fear just like a filthy, farm animal."
The salty tears of my humiliation sting my skin as I stand humiliated and degraded. Pollux stands beside me and yet I am so alone. How I wish Norge was here to give me the strength and courage to endure what I must. But he isn't here and I am alone.
Then unexpectedly, "smithy" is in front of me. Gently, he strokes my upper arm to comfort me and he tries to allay my panic by soothingly whispering.
"Steady boy! Take a deep breath, calm down and take it steady!"
This is an act of kindness and a show of compassion from one slave to another. He knows my pain and my suffering and as I look into his face I see sympathy for my plight mirrored in his eyes. As he looks at me, does he have memories of the Lucien Barrois who'd spent so many happy hours in his forge as a boy, a teenager and a young man? Somehow his recognition of me calms my frayed nerves and I quieten down.
Now, in my silence, I hear distant voices approaching the workshop. As they grow louder and more distinct, I recognise them as the voices of my Master and Claymore Jackson. Then I hear a third voice. It is that of the major domo, Colton. He has asked my Master's permission to be present as I am branded. And my Master has graciously consented.
To be continued.....