THE AFTERMATH II 'LEGACY AND CONSEQUENCE' Chapter 1: 'As you sow, so shall you reap!'
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): January, 2012
An archive of my stories can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
The ideas and characters in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, alterations or add pictures."
Note: My first, completed story 'The Aftermath' (Or What Follows Next) was written in 2009.
The characters in that story still appeal to me - this is especially the case with Toby and Andy - and I have decided to revisit them and to discover how they have adjusted to their new lives.
This won't be a long series; more a periodic story about each of the main characters.
Chapter 1: "As ye sow, so shall ye reap!"
Never were words more apt to describe my situation for truly I am reaping the bitter harvest of what I have sown.
Today I stand naked and trembling in chains on the display platform of Dave Matheson's slave market. I am a court mandated bankrupt; today, I'm to be sold to the highest bidder and the proceeds from my sale are to go in some small measure to repaying my debts to my many creditors.
It seems incongruous that just a few short weeks ago Dave Matheson had welcomed me into his establishment with open arms as I delivered four of my primest slaves to him for an expedited sale. Then all seemed right with my world. I owned a prosperous broad acre farm, bequeathed to me by my father free of all debt and encumbrances. Never was a son so blessed by his father's excellent stewardship. And never has a son so recklessly squandered a father's generous inheritance.
Today as I wait to be sold into slavery, I am reminded of the biblical 'prodigal son.'
How has this situation come about? There are many words I could use to describe what I have done. Some that come readily to my mind are gross stupidity, overweening vanity, crassness, ingratitude and selfishness. But worse than any of these is the disloyalty I displayed towards my loving slave and farm steward, Toby.
I am guilty of all these and much more and I am sure other people ascribe many more faults to me. I know my downfall has been much talked about among my erstwhile friends in the arts world. How they must snigger and laugh at my naivety and gaucheness.
Not too long ago, I had it all. A prosperous farm and a fine herd of slaves to work in its fertile fields and a loyal steward who only ever had my best interests at heart. Yet I have lost everything and I have been reduced to base slavery. By today's end, I will be owned property and the slave of some as yet unknown master.
The bleakest of futures now confronts me. At thirty years, I am young enough and I possess the bodily strength to will attract the interest of many buyers. Today there are fifty of us to be sold and Dave Matheson has placed me at mid-point in the sale. At my feet, painted in bright yellow, is the order of my sale, Lot 25. And humiliatingly, I also have that number inscribed on the right flank of my ass and the right pectoral just above my nipple.
There are still ten minutes before we are officially made available to the public for their scrutiny, but already the early buyers hover over the podium like carrion birds circling some dying prey. And even as I watch, I see Dave Matheson, accompanied by two men and a youth, striding purposefully in my direction. I recognise one of the men as the losing bidder for Toby at the recent auction when I'd sold my four slaves. I remember his name is Theodore Russell of Redgrove Plantation and slave-breeding farm.
Does he have an interest in me and for what purpose? I know he saw Toby as a breeding buck and that he was piqued when Obadiah Clements had outbid him. Is that how Theodore Russell sees me; as a potential stallion for his stud. The prospect of this is too awful to contemplate and I am appalled. But I am powerless to prevent this if, at the end of the auction, I am knocked down to Theodore Russell.
Just three days ago the courts tried me and found me guilty of bankruptcy; a serious crime in our profit obsessed society. There is just one sentence in our law statutes for people like me and that is mandatory enslavement for life. And justice moved swiftly!
I'd been taken from the courtroom, processed into slavery and delivered to the forge for branding and collaring. There, the letter S for slave had been forever seared into my left flank where the angry red, festering wound throbs with the intensity of the pain I feel throughout my body. Then released from the branding-table, I'd been forced to my knees and placed in the heavy metal slave collar I am doomed to wear for the remainder of my days. Its weight bows my head in shame and burdens my soul with sorrow and self-pity.
What has brought me to this sorry state? Why am I here as a court mandated slave waiting to be sold to the highest bidder?
My story is one of stupidity and false pride. It is a story of self-centredness and self-absorption But most of all it is a story of my disloyalty to Toby, my slave who gave his all to me. For nigh on twenty years, I selfishly took from Toby all of his love and devotion and in the final analysis, I rejected these for the crassness of a bronze statue of two naked wrestlers sensually entwined in combat.
I'd chosen the inanimate over the living. I'd preferred the cold metal of the wrestlers to Toby's warm, inviting flesh. In my foolish vanity and vain-glorious desire to impress my erstwhile art- loving, city friends, I'd chosen an empty bronze shell rather than Toby's living, breathing body within which beat a heart overflowing with goodness and love.
Foolishly, I'd chosen the lifeless form of a statue over the living body of one who'd loved and served me unconditionally for most of his life - and mine.
Capriciously, I had abandoned Toby and sent him to the slave-market where he'd been sold to the lecherous Obadiah Clements. As the auctioneer's hammer fell announcing that this was so, I realised - too late - the enormity of the injustice I had done to Toby.
Vainly, I tried to console myself with Toby's replacement. That night, I tried to find solace with my new slave Grigor and I failed dismally. Try as hard as I might, Toby's image was always before me and I was tormented by the thought of him at the mercy of his grotesque, new master. That night, I wept openly for Toby and my arms ached to hold him.
This proved a welcome distraction for my new slave Grigor - even his considerable charms failed to arouse me or to lift my spirits. Not that he tried; he retreated to the far side of my bed as far as it was possible to move away from me. He'd entered my bed fearing the worst and I sensed his relief at this sudden unexpected reprieve.
Poor Grigor! How he'd excited me when I'd first caught sight of him in the slave-pens. I had lusted after him and saw him as a worthy replacement for Toby. And I had used this to assuage my nagging conscience over my abandonment of my loving companion slave and loyal steward.
However, contrary to my expectations, Grigor wasn't the panacea I sought. If anything, quite the opposite is true. Every time I looked at Grigor I was reminded of Toby and those few times when I did order Grigor into my bed were less than successful. And as I thrust into Grigor, it was Toby's ass that was uppermost in my mind. In contrast to Toby's eagerness to please me, Grigor was proving sullen and unresponsive to my half-hearted advances. Eventually, it became too painful to me to have Grigor attempt to fill in for Toby and so I abandoned all pretence and banished him from the house to labour in the fields.
Now of course, Grigor faces an uncertain future in line with all my former slaves. Seized as bankrupt stock, the court has appointed Dave Matheson to dispose of them at special slave auctions as part of the realisation of all my property and assets to help defray some of my debts to my creditors.
I am guilty of all these things - and much more - and I can blame no one, other than myself, for my current predicament. I didn't choose to be a slave; indeed I wish with every fibre of my being that this wasn't so. If only I could turn back the clock. With the benefit of hindsight my life would be lived differently.
But I have made my bed and for better or worse I must now accept the consequences of my foolish actions. As I commiserate with myself, I think back to the day when Toby stood on this same platform. I now have a sense of the loss and rejection he'd have felt together with the fear of an unknown master and an uncertain future.
Today, I share those emotions and I am afraid; terribly afraid. Yet there is a sense of poetic justice in what is happening to me. Toby's recent vicissitudes - resulting from my unworthy actions - have become my current nightmare. I deserve my fate. And yet, I wish it wasn't so.
For now, I stand as a naked slave and I wallow in a deep trough of self-pity.
My journey to the auction-block is one that I'd rather not make. But it is inevitable and was made so the day I foolishly sold Toby.
Dave Matheson and Theodore Russell stop in front of me. Theodore - or Theo to his close associates - is accompanied by his older son Ben and his odious overseer, Silas Hacker.
Shamefaced and fearful, I can't look them in the eye and lower my gaze to the ground. I have never meet Theodore in person and in fact the only other time I have seen him was the day when I'd sold Toby. Then, I had watched as Theodore, locked in a fierce bidding war, lost out to Obadiah Clements who now owns Toby.
I have seen Toby twice since that day. Once I'd watched as Toby, together with seven other slaves, struggled to carry Obadiah's litter aloft on their shoulders through the crowded city streets. Given the ostentatious ornateness of the litter and the grotesque bulk of its reclining occupant this proved to be a herculean task for the eight, sweating, straining slaves.
As they passed, I averted my eyes; my sense of guilt didn't allow me to look at Toby. But not before I noticed the criss-cross pattern of angry red and blue welts on Toby's ass and shoulders which matched those of the other seven unfortunate wretches. Obviously, like them, he'd been sorely abused by his new Master.
The next time I saw Toby was on the night of my soiree when I introduced the statues of the two wrestlers to the city's art elite and glitterati.
Obadiah, as is his manner, staged the grand entrance. All eight of his litter-bearers were in their customary nude state but their bodies had been coated from head to toe in gold body paint and they wore laurel wreaths on their heads. Obadiah was outrageously dressed in a caftan and turban -resplendent with peacock feathers - after the manner of a dissolute, oriental potentate.
Such behaviour is expected of Obadiah by his fawning sycophants in the arts community and his arrival was greeted by loud applause. As the host, I was on hand to greet him - after all he was to give the introductory speech before the unveiling of my statues - and I hurried forward to warmly welcome him to my home.
I waited as the eight, exhausted slaves slowly lowered the heavy litter to the ground to allow its occupant to exit gracefully. Although, given his bulk, it's doubtful if any of Obadiah's movements could ever be considered graceful.
Unfortunately, one of the slaves stumbled, interrupting the fluidity of the movement and causing the litter to lurch to one side. I don't know which slave it was; under their anonymous body paint they all looked the same to me and I'm not sure if Toby was the guilty culprit. But it didn't matter if he was innocent or guilty - in their Master's eyes all eight slaves were equally guilty of publicly embarrassing him - and all eight paid the price for his anger.
As he tumbled out of the litter, Obadiah retrieved a strap that he obviously carried for just such an occasion and after soundly berating them, he ordered all eight slaves to put their noses to the ground and to raise their asses heavenward. Then with energy quite out of keeping with his generally poor condition, he moved from one to the other delivering five, stinging cuts of the strap to each upturned ass. Even then his anger wasn't assuaged; as the slaves cringed beneath his self-righteous indignation he promised that tomorrow each slave would receive ten strokes of the whip for their carelessness.
Of course, Obadiah loves playing to an appreciative audience. With much 'tut-tutting' and shaking of their heads his art-loving devotees urged him to punish the eight slaves for their negligence. Not that Obadiah needed any further urging. I knew of his rumoured, formidable reputation as a hard task-master and that night I saw strong evidence of it.
Obadiah's endurance and the obvious pleasure he received from publicly chastising his slaves surprised me. Altogether, he delivered forty strokes of his strap to the eight slaves - a formidable task even for a fitter and younger man - I assumed it was his relish for the task that gave him the added strength to see it through to its unhappy - for the slaves - conclusion.
But when I looked at Obadiah, I was suddenly concerned for his wellbeing; I thought he was at the point of collapse. His face was suffused an apoplexy red and the overtaxed arteries in his neck pulsed in erratic timing with his labouring heartbeats.
His exertions had left him a wheezing, heaving mound of corpulent flesh and my concern was that he'd not be able to deliver his introductory speech to my guests. However, my fears were groundless. By the time I called upon him to speak, he'd regained his composure - helped enormously by the quaffing of copious amounts of the expensive French wines I bought especially for the occasion - and he entertained my guests with his usual flair and wit.
The night went well and I basked in the fulsome praise of my art-loving friends. Despite my initial misgivings about Obadiah's treatment of my former slave, I soon put Toby out of my mind. After all, Toby is now another man's slave and how his owner treats him isn't my concern. It is an unwritten rule among slave-owners that they never criticise another on the treatment of his slaves.
My soiree was an outstanding success and the complimentary praise of the city's art community went to my head. I'd spared no expense in entertaining them and I lavished them with an overabundance of expensive food and wine. That night, I didn't give thought to how I was to pay for all this -that could wait.
Everything had been charged against my next harvest - and I found the caterers and wine-merchants were very persuasive in convincing me to serve only the best and most expensive of their wares to my guests. And to assist me in buying their goods, they gave me an unlimited line of credit against my ripening crops. Foolishly, I'd not seen the pitfalls involved in doing this. However, at one stage I guiltily thought of Toby and how he'd disapprove of my spendthrift ways.
I'd chosen a 'wrestling' theme for the night and I'd instructed my new steward, Toby's replacement, to dig a deep pit and to cover its base with a mixture of dry, red earth and oil. I read this is a common form of wrestling on - I think - the Indian subcontinent and the pictures I'd seen had aroused me with their sheer eroticism. I'd personally inspected my slave herd to choose the brawniest and most muscular from among them to serve as wrestlers on the night.
The sensuous sight of these naked wrestlers, their bodies generously coated with oil, slipping and striving to gain the upper hand over their opponents in the slithery environment of the pit proved most entertaining and was well received by my appreciative guests.
And to further impress them with my 'sophistication', at enormous expense, I'd hired some pleasure slaves from the Patroklos Club to serve as waiters and to entertain my guests in a series of salacious tableaux that showcased their sexual prowess. These slaves approached their duties with great enthusiasm and proved enormously popular. Their 'no holds barred and anything goes' demonstrations were greeted with long and sustained applause.
Dave Matheson had told me that one of my four slaves had been bought by the owner of the club for use as a pleasure slave and it was through his negotiations that I'd arranged to hire these slaves. I was taken aback when I'd received the owner's quote for the hiring of his slaves but Dave told me that the charge was more than reasonable when you considered the loss of income to the owner by the slaves being absent from the Patroklos Club for the night. In my eagerness to impress and despite my misgivings, I'd acquiesced to Dave's convincing arguments.
Of course, I'd felt duty bound to invite Dave to my soiree even though I knew my socially conscious guests would frown upon his presence. He was after all only a slave-trader!
Dave accepted my invitation - I had hoped he wouldn't. He'd over imbibed and his coarse manners, loud talking and raucous laughter did embarrass me in front of my more refined guests. Dave was very much a 'fish out of water.'
Now he stands before me with Theodore Russell and I am very much his social inferior.
He walks behind me and viciously swipes his cane across my ass. I have received my first stripe for the day. But it won't be the last. Imperiously, he orders me to.
"Stand at full display, boy! Mr Russell wants to inspect you."
Trembling, I hasten to obey.
To be continued????.