CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES A Sequel to a Reversal of Fortune Chapter 46: "Final Farewells"
This is s story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years.
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): October, 2011
An archive of all my stories can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without permission
Chapter 46: Final Farewells
The haul out to the quarries has been taxing on all the members of my team. However, I think it was even more so for me. I don't wish to play down the suffering of my fellow slaves or to portray myself as a 'martyr' but quite simply, their endurance is that much greater than mine. Their length of time spent working in the team has given them an edge over me.
They've obviously been draft slaves for some considerable time and their whip-scarred backs are mute testimony to that. Consequently, they are more conditioned to the rigours of pulling a heavy dray whereas I'm still learning the ropes - or more correctly that should be the harness and chains.
This is only my second day on the job and I am exhausted after the three mile haul from La Foret. And yet it could be worse. My six weeks working on the water-wheel have helped enormously. It has developed my cardio-vascular system and increased my lung capacity so that I am now able to gulp large quantities of air into my sorely tested lungs - important for long, sustaining haulage - and my muscular legs are powerful pistons of energy and strength.
Without the water-wheel's exercise, I doubt I could have lasted the distance this morning!
Like my nineteen companions, I am making the most of my respite - which unfortunately is to be all too brief. Already a gang of quarry slaves - driven on by their overseers - are shovelling furiously to load gravel onto our dray. At the pace they are made to work, I estimate it will take less than ten minutes before our driver and Sir Conn whip us into action for the return trip to La Foret.
Ten minutes! We have only ten precious minutes to recover and to allow our laboured breathing to settle and for our stressed legs to cease their jellylike quivering. Then, we must begin the long, tortuous return to the plantation with our dray fully loaded and weighed down by the dead-weight of the gravel.
Four quarry slaves charged with the task of watering us, move among us giving us the precious liquid to ease our parched throats and to replace the body moisture we'd lost through sweating. I watch as these slaves move from yoke to yoke and impatiently, I wait for my turn. My throat is dry and my tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth and my body is screaming out for relief.
The four quarry slaves are naked and like us they wear the ubiquitous collars of slavery around their scrawny necks. They don't share our fitness and their bodies are thin to the point of being emaciated. And if it is possible, they are in an even worse condition than us. Their long hair and straggly beards are matted with their sweat and the quarry dust that perpetually coats their bodies. Their faces are devoid of any emotion and their lifeless eyes show the hopelessness of their situations.
All are older slaves who'd once worked at the quarry face hewing out blocks of stone ready for shipment downriver to the city. I notice one is limping and I can tell by his misshapen left leg that it had been broken at one time. Perhaps by a fall or crushed by a heavy stone block; such accidents are all too common in the quarries.
When such accidents do occur, either one of two things happens. Once the seriousness of the injury to the slave is assessed, an immediate decision is made. If the injury is considered to be beyond treatment, then a veterinarian is summoned and the unfortunate victim is humanely given a lethal injection. I know from my past life that this is normal practice; slaves like horses and other domestic animals are euphemistically 'put down' and the slave owner is left to lament the loss of another valuable asset.
However, if a slave is 'treatable' then an effort is made save him so that he can continue to work in his master's interests. Even the old and the infirm have something to contribute and here in the quarries they can serve as water-carriers for their fitter brethren.
At some time, this slave had suffered a broken or crushed leg. Obviously his treatment had been rudimentary - no doubt he'd been treated by an overseer and not by a doctor or a veterinarian - and he is left with a limp which in no way prevents him from carrying a water container.
He works on my side of the shaft and I wait impatiently for him to reach number fifteen and me. My thirst is that great!
There is something familiar about the slave working with him but with his dishevelled appearance I can't quite identify who he is. And yet, I know I should recognise him. My curiosity is aroused and I watch as he moves mechanically from one yoke to another whilst I rack my brain as to who he is and how I know him.
Finally, he stands by my side and he places the water tube and nozzle in my mouth. We gaze into each other's face and our eyes meet in instant recognition of one another. I know this slave well.
It is Cato!
But this isn't the Cato from my former life. Gone is his pleasing appearance and noble bearing. The pride he'd once felt as my grandfather's chief steward - and favourite slave - is no more. It has been whipped out of him as, at the same time, his spirit was crushed by the weight of his labours as a quarry slave.
I recall from the last time we'd been together - at Lionel Schuster's slave-market not all that long ago - that his closely cropped hair was a shiny, lustrous black with just a sprinkling of grey. Today, it is lustreless and hangs long and lank in tangled threads; it frames his gaunt face and hangs over his expressionless eyes in matted strands. His hair and beard are coloured grey by the fine quarry-dust that hangs in the heat laden air and which clogs the nostrils. The patina of grey dust coating his emaciated, naked body, gives him a ghostly appearance.
The once magnificent physique is shrivelling to that of an older man. The strong arms which had once been capable of delivering a painful caning to a wayward slave's upturned ass - and my own ass tingles at the phantom memory of such a caning - are now those of an old man weakened by the unrealistic demands made of him as he toils under the lash.
Growing up, Cato had been a part of my life and I'd genuinely held him in high regard. I am saddened beyond belief to see the slave who'd once unselfishly loved and served my grandfather with unquestioning devotion reduced to such dire straits.
Tears fill my eyes for Cato's fate but they are no less so than for my own. Both of us, who'd loved my grandfather, are paying a high price for that love. We have been brought undone by the almost pathological hatred of my grandfather's estranged sister, Charlotte Maratier. Her insatiable hatred of him is such that she extracts further vengeance on the two people he'd loved dearly - his loyal slave, Cato and his beloved grandson, Lucien.
I wonder has there ever been another person so twisted by bitterness and so consumed by malevolent hatred as my great-aunt, Charlotte Maratier. I doubt it!
Cato and I are forbidden to talk and yet ours eyes give eloquent expression to our thoughts. Mirrored in them, we each see pity for the other.
Cato lifts his water container high and places the nozzle to my mouth. It would appear he has taken pity on me and is allowing longer for me to drink than he should. The slurping, guzzling sounds I make as I quench my thirst tell him of my gratitude for this small act of kindness.
But he has lingered too long. An impatient shout from an overseer orders Cato to.
"MOVE ON!'
I hear his audible wince and I see the look of pain on his face as the overseer's whip snakes through the air and cuts across his ass. Cato moves swiftly to obey and moves to the yoke immediately behind my own.
Over the next few days, I will see Cato again as he carries water to us whenever we visit the quarries. But these will be my last contacts with him. There will be no spoken farewells for words are forbidden us and instinctively, I'll know that we won't meet again.
And on each of those occasions, whenever I see Cato, my resentment at his treatment of me on the first night of my enslavement will give way to pity and a deep anger. Pity for his cruel suffering and anger at the callous way he has been rewarded for his long years of loyal service to the Barrois family.
And this will further feed my impotent hatred of Charlotte Maratier for the spitefulness she has shown toward both Cato and me. But this hatred will serve no useful purpose other than to highlight my powerlessness as a slave.
I watch as our driver and Sir Conn walk over to where Francois Fournier sits under the shade of a striped awning. Francois hasn't changed all that much over the years since I'd last had contact with him. He was good-looking as a schoolboy, handsome as a youth and he remains so as today's man.
The three Fournier boys, Thierry, StＱhane and Francois are blest with Gallic good looks and charm but Francois outshines his two older brothers and I'd always had a soft spot for him because of his handsome features and his impressive physique which had been honed to perfection during our rowing days together.
At school, I'd rowed immediately behind Francois and from that position, I'd been able to watch the play of his powerful shoulder and back muscles as, like one of the galley slaves who inhabited my fantasies, he applied himself to the oars.
At our school, rowing was considered to be a manly sport and for me it was also erotic. I loved the skimpiness of the dress which we wore. The brief shorts that hid very little and suggested much and the singlet tops which drew my eye to the rippling back muscles and the flexing biceps of my rowing mates. .
And the headiness of a rower's sweat!
How I loved to watch as beads of perspiration formed on Francois's smooth skin before joining together into rivulets which then trickled down his straining back to soak his singlet and shorts with their salty wetness? And Francois' sweat soaked shorts clung so seductively to the tight, well-rounded cheeks of his ass - almost like a transparent, second skin. It was an ass that I had secretly lusted after and one I had wanted to explore to its fullest depths.
And always after our training sessions we returned to the locker-room and the showers!
Communal nudity in the steamy environs of the showers made for a highly charged atmosphere and I was never immune to the suggestiveness of being completely naked in the company of my team-mates. Always, for me, there was the sense of the homo-erotic as we strode around seemingly indifferent to our shared nakedness.
Even then, I thought all males share a common - if carefully hidden - attraction to one another's bodies. I believed it then and I still do today. As we paraded cock proud in front of one another - projecting images of our heterosexual machismo - we'd have belligerently rejected any suggestion that we were 'homos'.
Yet our ribald laughter as we crudely joked about not dropping the soap and bending over to pick it up or as we flicked our towels at each other's rumps trying to target an exposed ass hole suggested otherwise to me. These spoke of secret desires and unspoken lust.
High spirited, we wrestled naked with one another whilst making illicit grabs at our opponents' genitals. As our bodies made physical contact and sweat-slithered over one another weren't we sampling something of the delights that man love offers? I always thought so!
As nonchalantly as possible, I'd always contrive to wrestle with Francois and it seemed to me that he was of a similar mind. How I loved the feel of his hard body pressed closely to my own as we each battled chest to chest to get the upper hand. I loved the way we'd try to stand our ground against the other by moving our legs further apart to give us greater balance or we'd reach behind one another and grab a firm, rounded ass-cheek to provide stability. But most of all, I ached to feel the heat and the hardness of his arousal crossing swords with my own. And I have to say, Francois seldom disappointed me.
As boys and youths, Francois and I had swum naked in the broad river that flowed along the boundaries of our families' plantations. There, we'd cavorted in the river endeavouring to dunk one another beneath the water's surface and afterwards we'd playfully wrestled naked on the banks of the river.
Our time in the water had made us eel-slippery which added an erotic element to our wrestling bouts as our hands sought vainly to grab hold of the other's wet body. Eventually, exhausted, we'd collapse breathless on the river's edge and allow the sun's warmth to dry our bodies.
Surreptitiously, I would sneak sideway glances as Francois rested on his back and often - and to my great delight - I was rewarded with glimpses of his incipient erections. I wondered - what caused his erections? Was I the reason? Did I have this affect him? Did he lust after me as I did after him?
Or was it only the vigorous exercise that had stirred his blood and the sun's warm afterglow as we rested at the water's edge that affected him?
Always and disappointingly, Francois would become aware of his erection and in a red flush of embarrassment, he'd turn onto his belly to hide it from me.
Why then had I never followed through on my lustful thoughts about Francois? The answer is simple.
In its hypocrisy, our society refuses to tolerate 'Greek love' between free men. It is viewed as an abomination against nature and is seen as a serious crime which carries the penalty of a term of imprisonment. But the greater punishment is in the social stigma and family rejection that always follows such a public disclosure.
And yet society indulges itself with male on male sex between free men and slaves; a fact which is widespread but never spoken of in polite circles.
Most youths and young, freemen expend their sexual urges and satisfy their raging hormones by using their families' male slaves. In this, they are actively encouraged to do so by their indulgent fathers who, most probably, keep a male, pleasure slave of bed-buck tucked away in their own bedrooms. And even their mothers seek random relief for the boredom of their marital beds by the occasional use of a handsome, young, house slave.
Polite society sees nothing wrong in this use of its slaves. The justification it uses to excuse itself is that slaves are designated as soulless non-persons - devoid of humanity - with no legal standing and so, in sexually using them, no laws are broken, no code of conduct is shattered and no rules of morality are breached.
I always saw this outrage at sex between freemen as sheer hypocrisy! And yet, fearful of the consequences, I used my male slaves shamefully and in doing so I broke no laws or shattered any conventions. My fear of public rejection and scorn had ensured my true sexual orientation remained carefully hidden from all but a few friends who shared my predilection for male sex; but we'd always confined this to our slaves and never indulged with one another.
But Francois had never been in my close group of friends and I had assumed he wasn't of my sexual persuasion. And so we'd drifted apart and we went our separate ways. I had secretly lusted after Francois but I never knew if he'd harboured similar thoughts about me.
Today is the first time I have seen Francois for some time - it must be at least three years since we last spoke - and even from this distance, I see he hasn't changed markedly. And any change has been for the better. He remains as devilishly handsome as ever and like a good French wine, he has matured.
From what I have heard Francois, proud of the trust placed in him by his father, is an excellent manager of the quarries. Indeed, under his stewardship both the production and profits from the quarries' operations are now a major source of the Fournier family's wealth.
Francois is very much hands-on in his approach and rather than sit remotely detached in an office, he spends a considerable portion of his day on the floor of the quarries where he can observe the operations at first-hand and if necessary instigate improvements to them.
Innovatively, he uses a transportable office of striped canvas which shades him from the sun's intensity. The shelter is both rudimentary and portable which means it can be quickly dismantled, moved to another site and re-erected within a few minutes.
Of course, Francois doesn't do this for himself. He is permanently attended by two handsome, young slaves especially chosen by him for their muscular physiques and whose only task it is to see that their Master is protected from the sun's burning rays.
This morning, Francois is sitting at his desk; both slaves wield fans to cool him in much the same way as some Middle-Eastern potentate whilst a third waits attentively to serve him a cool drink when he is thirsty.
I watch as Francois stands and welcomes our driver and then he turns and shakes Sir Conn by the hand.
As they talk, Francois, Sir Conn and the driver turn in our direction. Obviously they are discussing us - their body language and hand gestures suggest this - and I wonder if they are talking about the team in general or me in particular. Does Francois know that I am working in the team?
And as though they are reading my thoughts, they walk towards us. I will soon know the answer to my silent question.
"Hey, dumb ass! I have a former friend of yours asking after you."
Sir Conn's words tell that I have been the subject of their conversation. I'm not to know that Francois had asked my driver if he knew what had become of Lucien Barrois or if he knew of my whereabouts. Francois had enquired if I'd been sold or had my Master retained my services. The driver introduced him to Sir Conn who, as my personal handler, is better equipped to answer any questions relating to me.
Quite obviously, Sir Conn had told Francois that my Master had kept me and that I was a member of the team harnessed to the dray.
I am covered in embarrassment! How do I re-act to this man who'd once been my school- friend and rowing companion who now sees me as a naked slave forced by his Master to toil as a beast of burden? My nakedness scorches with my public humiliation and I'm convinced that my body glows scarlet-red from my shame. I am so ashamed that I can't look at Francois and I lower my eyes to the quarry floor. I stand mute and wait.
"I spoke to you dumb ass! I said you have a former friend asking after you. Lift your head so he can see you. LOOK UP BOY!"
To gain my attention, Sir Conn uses the handle of his whip to slap my ass and as the 'smack' echoes around the quarry, I quickly raise my eyes. Momentarily, I look directly at Francois before once more respectfully lowering my gaze. But in those fleeting moments, I see something of the old regard that Francois had once had for me. I wait for him to speak.
"Of course, I knew him as Lucien. Conn, what name did you say his Master has given him?"
"He's now called Rafe! I believed his Master called him after a mongrel dog he owned as a boy. But I call him Dumb ass. I think that name suits him better."
"Hmmm!"
Francois's curt response to Sir Conn's answer is ambiguous; it gives nothing away. Did it signify approval or disapproval of the slave name given to me by my Master and Sir Conn's cruder and more derogatory one?
With all my heart I hope that Francois doesn't speak directly to me. I am finding it hard to maintain my composure in his presence and I feel the same unease that I'd experienced when I'd come face to face with my three, former friends at Lionel Schuster's slave-market some weeks earlier.
Through our shared schooldays, these three were known to Francois although he'd not been a member of our circle and my friendship with him was more or less centred on our rowing activities and our shared holidays at La Foret and the nearby Fournier plantation.
The last time I'd seen my three former friends was at my Master's 'getting to know the neighbourhood' cocktail hour when I'd been made to kneel before them and service their cocks. I wonder if Miles, Jack or Daniel has spared any thought either to me or my plight since that night. I doubt it! And why would they? Since then, I have been swallowed up in the yawning chasm of anonymous slavery and lost among the multitude of my nameless brother slaves.
And no doubt I have been long forgotten by an unforgiving public.
Certainly, the scandal surrounding my ignominious enslavement had excited the public imagination and I was a 'hot topic' of conversation for a few weeks. For the first few days after my downfall, I was front page news and the main point of conversation at the dinner- table.
Newspaper proprietors wrote thundering editorials condemning the evil machinations of the Barrois family in trying to present me - the unfortunate result of a dalliance between a Master and his female slave - as its heir while denying the legitimate one his God-given birth right. And the editors' forum columns were full of letters of condemnation from an outraged citizenry who rejoiced that 'justice was not only seen to be done but was in fact done' and I'd been returned to my rightful place in their well-ordered, slave-owning society.
Inevitably, I became less newsworthy - there were newer scandals to titillate the jaded fancies of the self-righteous - and I slowly faded from the front page. Now I am old news and no longer rate a second thought.
Except that is for the recent news item that once more brought the Barrois name to the front page.
This reported that the recently re-elected Governor - as promised during his campaign - had hastily instituted the draconian changes to the Slave Laws known as the 'Barrois Amendments to the Slave- owners Act'. Effectively, this stripped away those few protective rights that slaves had possessed for their safety and well-being and gave absolute authority over them to their owners and the Slave Courts.
Slaves now have no rights or privileges apart from those given to them by their owners who enjoy unfettered control over them. All punishments, short of death, are solely at the Master's discretion. I suppose there is small comfort for a slave in knowing that his owner can punish him to the point of death but can't go beyond that. Only a court can approve of a slave being put to death for rebelliousness or violent crimes against a free person.
Under the 'Barrois Amendments' that is the only protection a slave now has.
Unwittingly, I had been the catalyst for this; my slave brethren and I now pay a high price as a result of my enslavement.
For me, one of the hardest aspects of my servitude is when I come face-to-face with a former friend for it is then that I am acutely reminded of all I have lost. How easily we take friendships for granted and how hard it is to bear the loss of even one.
As I stand before Francois -not as the friend I once was - but as a naked, dishevelled slave, I feel the loss of his friendship most acutely. It cuts deep into my soul and a dry sob catches in my throat. I am reminded that I have lost so much and I am weighed down by my sense of awful loneliness. But then I think of Norge - my beloved Norge! How I wish he was here to console me with his presence.
But the time is drawing nearer when I will be with my Norge. I look forward to the day when I will run at his side as we pull our Master's carriage behind us as a matched pair. After this six weeks spent as a heavy duty draft slave, I move onto the final stage of my training to make me a pony slave and Norge's team-mate.
Thankfully, Francois chooses not to speak to me. His near proximity to me and the pity I see in his eyes as he looks upon my sorry plight have made me fragile. I know, should he speak directly to me, I would be unable to control my fraught emotions. Perhaps, as he looks into my tear streaked face, he sees my fragility and acting out of compassion chooses to ignore me. If this is so, then I see it as a great kindness from a man who'd once been my friend.
Francois turns away from me and directs his attention to the slave-gang busily loading gravel into my dray. Gruffly, he orders his overseers to "speed things up" and they respond by laying their whips across the straining backs of the slaves already bent double by their furious shovelling.
Within minutes, the dray is fully loaded and our brief respite is at an end.
Our driver and Sir Conn take their leave of Francois and waste no time in whipping us into action. Responding to their whips, all twenty of us strain forward as one to commence our return to La Foret. But the dead weight of the gravel stalls us and the wagon refuses to move. We have been overloaded!
Watching from the sidelines, Francois instructs his overseers to "lend a hand" and as their whips join with those of our driver and Sir Conn, we draw on those hidden reserves of strength that only the lash can seek out and unleash.
Slowly, the dray lurches forward on its inexorable, return journey to La Foret's waiting garden-paths.
As we struggle up the steep incline out of the quarry and onto the roadway, I am dismayed by the realisation that this is the first of several trips that we must complete before day's end. Only then will we get any sustenance and rest.
The dead weight of the gravel-laden dray is dragging behind me and calls for superhuman effort on my part. Every sinew and every tendon in my tortured body is stretched to snapping point and my straining muscles scream out for relief. My bare feet find little purchase on the hard, unyielding road surface and then, just when I think I can go no further, I feel the sharp cut of Sir Con's whip on my ass and I hear his impatient exhortation.
"Move yo'self, Dumb ass! Get your lazy, white boy ass into gear!"
To be continued......