The Aftermath 2 (Legacy and Consequence) Chapter 5 The Litter Bearers
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
Note: I'm sure we'd all agree that Nifty provided a wonderful services to both writers and readers. - And it's free!
But even a free services incurs some costs and if you'd like to show your appreciation for the pleasure you get from reading the many stories in Nifty's archive, you might consider making a donation to help with the group's operating expenses.
Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): June, 2012 Read my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
"The characters and ideas in this story are the writer's and shouldn't be used without his permission. Please respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."
Chapter 5: The Litter Bearers
As I'm led away from the selling platform to the holding pens, I pass my new Master, Obadiah Clements. I barely catch a glimpse of him for he is surrounded by a group of sycophantic well- wishers who are congratulating him on his purchase of me.
In the main, the well-wishers are those I'd once thought were my friends. How wrong I was in thinking that. I am so ashamed at what I have become and lower my head hoping to pass them undetected.
Obadiah is in the middle of the group; a young slave stands at his side and holds an umbrella over his Master's head to shield him from the intensity of the sun's burning rays. The conversation is animated and I wonder how much of it is about me. Perhaps, in thinking that, I am placing too much importance on myself. From within the group, I hear my Master's high pitched giggling and his lisping responses to his well-wishers.
Fortunately for me, I pass the group unnoticed. The attendant, who leads me, tugs at the leash attached to my collar as an incentive to keep me moving. Above me, on the platform, I hear the auctioneer introducing Lot 9 to the eager buyers.
I think back to the fifteen to twenty minutes since we'd both stood in the race waiting as Lot 7 was sold. As he was taken out of the race, we were ordered to shuffle forward to fill the gap he'd left. The overseers had used the ends of their canes and whips to prod us into closer contact with one another and their loud exhortations rang in my ears.
"Right then, you lot! Move forward! Let's have you one behind the other - nuts to butts! Quickly now!"
There'd been some comfort from the close physical contact of another slave's body pressing hard against my own naked one; but not in any sexual sense. True, the feel of Lot 9's rampant erection pressing against my bare ass was enjoyable, but at that moment, the warmth of his hard body pressing against mine gave me emotional support rather than any lewd ideas.
Emotionally, I was at my lowest ebb and my fraught mind was filled with fear and uncertainty. Yet strangely, the touch of another's body pressed against my own did give me some comfort; it met my very human need for close physical contact with my fellow man in my time of stress. Through our close proximity, I could feel the accelerated beating of Lot 9's heart and the nervous rise and fall of his anxious breathing which matched my own. Yet, it had a calming effect on me and I took selfish comfort in knowing that he was to share my fate.
That was twenty minutes ago and so much has happened since then. I have been sold and my life has been irrevocably changed. I am now a slave in every sense of the word and soon my new Master, once he has paid for me, will claim me and take me to my new home. In the interim, I will be locked in a holding cage as I await his collection.
The holding cages are located to one side of the selling-yard and are screened from the buyers' view by a high stone wall. As we pass through the gateway, away from the frenzied activity of the auction into the relevant calm of the holding-yard, I am handed over to the custody of an employee and his slave assistants who are to look after me until my new Master comes to claim me.
I look towards the small cages and see they hold the seven slaves who'd preceded me to the auction-block. Most of them stand at the front of their cages holding onto the bars - almost as though they need their support to stand - and watch as I am processed. I see Lot 7's tear-stained face looking in my direction and I notice that his body is convulsed by his deep sobbing.
The overseer, who'd brought me from the auction-block, tells the official in charge of the holding- pens that I have been sold to Mr Obadiah Clements. Humiliated, I stand passively, as the official writes this in large black letters on my chest and belly - 'Sold to Mr O Clements'.
Then, I am placed in my cage to wait on my Master's pleasure. Nervously, I pace around the perimeter of my prison until Lot 9 is brought into the yard. Like my fellow slaves I stand at the front of my pen and watch through the bars as he too is marked and placed in the cage next to mine.
The afternoon moves slowly as one by one other slaves join us from the race. Then, about midway through the auction, the buyers begin arriving to claim their new purchases. They present their receipts to the overseer in charge who removes a slave from his cage and hands him over to his new master.
I watch as lot 7 is claimed by Theodore Russell, and despite the precariousness of my own situation, I am moved by the unfortunate new slave's obvious distress. His heartrending cries to his absent parents tug at my emotions. As he begins his slavery, there is no one from his family or from his old, free life to farewell him or to offer him words of encouragement. He is very much on his own.
His useless pleas fall on indifferent ears as the Redgrove Plantation farm manager, Silas Hacker dispassionately ties his wrists behind his back and attaches a leash to his neck collar. Tearfully, the wretched slave watches as the overseer hands the leash to his new Master, young Ben Redgrove.
As I watch, I am reminded of a terrified, unbroken colt in the hands of its wrangler for the very first time. Ben Redgrove tugs at the leash but the young slave baulks and stands his ground. I'm sure this isn't done out of his intransigence; the new slave is too traumatised to be disobedient and his reluctance to move is a sign of his panic and confusion.
But any display of disobedience - be it deliberate or unintentional - is unacceptable and the slave pays a high price. I doubt he's even aware of what's happening as Silas Hacker positions himself behind the slave and unclips a short, leather quirt form his belt.
He does however feel the whip's savage bite as it cuts across his bare ass. Silas Hacker is in no mood to allow for the slave's nervousness and uncertainty. The overseer's face is suffused bright red and the corded veins in his neck stand out as tangible signs of his anger. The strength of his whipping arm is fuelled by the spitefulness of his nature and the slave pays dearly for his non-compliance. I'm unsure of how many times the whip is applied to the slave's ass. I cease to count after five as I watch the slave 'running on the spot' with each cruel cut of the whip. I listen to his cries of pain as they reverberate around the courtyard and unsettle the still unclaimed occupants of the holding-pens.
Then, with one final swipe of the whip, Silas Hacker shouts to the slave.
"Move yourself boy! Move your lazy ass! NOW!"
I watch as the sobbing slave, now completely cowed by Silas's whip, trails after his young Master. As he walks away, I see the criss-cross pattern of angry, red stripes on his ass. The slave has learned his first lesson in obedience and it's obvious that he'll be very sore for a number of days.
And the slave's treatment at Silas Hacker's hands serves as a salutatory warning to those of us who are still locked in our pens of what awaits us should we anger our new masters when they come to collect us. I resolve to behave myself and, as distasteful as it is, to submit to my new Master, Obadiah Clements.
And I don't have long to wait!
As is his custom, Obadiah Clements makes the grand entrance; he announces his arrival with his familiar, high-pitched talking and shrill giggling. I watch as he walks laboriously towards my holding- pen. His young slave-attendant walks three paces behind him and shades him from the sun with an umbrella. Even the umbrella is a reflection of Obadiah's flamboyant taste. It is overly large - but given his enormous bulk perhaps it needs to be - and it is floral patterned in garish colours of red, blue, green and yellow. But I notice that the caftan and turban he wears are identically patterned and over the coming days I will learn that my new Master has several such matching sets.
For as long as I have been acquainted with him, Obadiah has always worn a full-length caftan and turban. I'd always seen this as an outward expression of his 'artistic bent'. I'd regarded his flamboyant manner of dress as eccentric - but deliberate -and intended to differentiate him from those he disparagingly referred to as the 'great, unwashed masses' and who he greatly despises. But as I get to know and serve my new Master I will learn that this isn't so.
As yet, I'm unaware of what duties my new Master will allocate to me. Ultimately, I am destined to serve with Toby as one of his personal body-slaves and a carrier of his new sedan chair. And part of my duties as his body-slave will see me assisting Toby in showering Obadiah - a monumental task at best - and then to dress him.
I will discover that my Master isn't being eccentric or flamboyant in wearing a caftan and turban - although, I suspect he does enjoy the notoriety they attract - but it's simply a case of convenience.
As I wrestle with him in the shower, I will be repulsed by his naked obesity. And as I help Toby to dress him I will see the impossibility of him wearing normal clothes. I doubt that any tailor could make trousers with a sufficient girth to wrap around his enormous waistline or with legs wide enough to encase his gargantuan lower limbs.
I will find it is much easier to slip a caftan over his head - and even this will prove somewhat difficult - than to dress him in a shirt and trousers. Even the wearing of an undergarment will present me with difficulty. There are no underwear manufacturers who make garments of sufficient size that would fit Obadiah's nether regions.
Each morning, it will become my unhappy lot to cover my Master's nakedness with the square piece of cloth that serves as his underwear. It will be my task to pass it through his legs and tie it off on either side of his waist. But that is still in the future.
Within the next day or so, Toby will show me the correct way to wrap a turban around our Master's head. I will discover this is done with the purpose of hiding his bald pate from public scrutiny. Obadiah Clements's scalp shows the ravages of time and its mottled appearance adds to his overall repulsiveness - a repulsiveness he goes to great lengths to minimise by wearing a caftan and turban and dressing in the manner of an oriental potentate.
Obadiah pauses outside my cage and clutching the receipt which acknowledges his payment of me, he waits impatiently while the yard overseer and his assistants prepare another slave for handover to his new owner.
He turns to look at me and speaks.
"Oh dear me, Andrew! You have been a very naughty boy haven't you? And look where your naughtiness has gotten you. You've lost everything and you're now a slave. I wonder what your poor father would think of you."
Mention of my father brings tears to my eyes. My new Master's question is one that has weighed heavily on me in recent times. For I know the answer to it. My father would be appalled at my poor judgement and lack of business acumen. He'd have been angry that I'd ignored the sound advice of my farm steward, Toby. In fact, my father had singled Toby out for this role very early on and had trained him in all aspects of farm management. And no doubt my father would have been ashamed of my new slave status. On reflection, I have let down my father, my ever faithful slave, Toby and even more so I have failed myself. I am a bitter disappointment! I am too overwhelmed to answer the question.
"Andrew, I asked you a question. Answer me!" Obadiah's voice is shrill with his indignation.
"My father would be ashamed and disappointed with me..." then I remember that I am now a slave and this man owns me. I'm aware of his mercurial temperament and wishing to avoid any punishment, I acknowledge him as "......... Master."
The fact that I do so seems to please Obadiah.
"That was very good Andrew! You have called me 'Master' for the first time and now I must decide what I will call you. Andrew is far too grand a name for a slave and besides it is a reminder of better days, isn't it? No we need something more in keeping with your new status. We shall call you Andy. That rhymes nicely with Toby. Andy and Toby has a nice ring to it. Andy and Toby - yes, you'll be my two body slaves and sedan chair bearers."
Now I know what my duties will be. I am to serve with Toby as one of our Master's personal body slaves and made to carry his chair through the streets of the city. The thought of staggering naked through the streets under the impossibly heavy burden of our Master's bulk fills me with shame. The only redeeming thing is that I am to be re-united with Toby and to work with him. But my lingering sense of guilt sounds out a warning. Will Toby forgive me and accept me as his fellow slave?
The Yard supervisor is now ready to deliver me into the hands of my new Master. As he takes the receipt from Obadiah, he examines it before closely looking at me. Obviously, I interest him and he congratulates Obadiah Clements on his purchase.
"You have purchased well, Mr Clements. As always you seem to have the knack for seeking out only the best slaves on offer. This one would have to be among the tops of today's offering."
"Why thank you, overseer!" My Master simpers. "Yes, he's a fine slave; quite delightful isn't he?"
"You have quite a flair for choosing your slaves, Mr Clements."
"Well, I do like to buy only the best slaves my money allows. It's an indulgence I allow myself. I like to collect slaves as others collect stamps, coins or rare books."
"May I ask how many slaves do you own?"
"Of course you can! I have eight litter-bearers who also do all the heavy work around my home and maintain my gardens, my umbrella slave, a cook and an assistant cook in the kitchen and this new purchase, who with one other slave, will serve me as my personal body slaves and double up as carriers of my new sedan chair. Oh, and my major domo! That makes fourteen."
"That's quite a handful, Mr Clements. How do you control them?"
"That's easy! I control them with the whip and the cane. And I do have a 'trustee' slave who acts as my major domo and he keeps them all in check. He's my instrument of authority with the responsibility for delivering any punishments that are necessary."
"You seem to have a well-regulated household, Mr Clements."
"Indeed I do, overseer! I have a very orderly mind and I can't abide a disorganised home. But if you don't mind, I need to take delivery of my slave and be on my way. I have dinner guests tonight and I must return home to see that all is in readiness for their arrival."
"Certainly Mr Clements, I'm sorry to have kept you. I'll just have my assistants remove him from his pen and tie his wrists behind his back and then you can be on your way."
"Don't bother tying his wrists. He'll walk beside my litter as I return home."
I'm released from my holding pen and given into my Master's custody. There are a few awkward moments as I process the fact that I am now Obadiah Clements's newest slave acquisition and that he has officially taken delivery of me.
The silence is pregnant with an unknown expectation. What am I to do? I recall back to those occasions when I'd taken delivery of a new slave and how I'd expected the slave to fall to his knees and pay homage at my feet. Does my new Master expect this from me? Most probably he does.
One part of me tells me I should fall to my knees and crawl to Obadiah's feet and kiss them in homage. Yet, another part of me - my false, free man's pride - prevents me from doing so. But the question is academic and really, it isn't mine to answer. My new Master decides for me.
"Overseer, could you beat the slave to his knees please." Obadiah's words express his impatience and anger. "He has failed to pay me the respect due to me as his owner."
The overseer happily obliges and applies his cane to my ass and to the back of my thighs as he orders me to.
"Kneel slave! Now crawl to your new owner's feet."
As I crawl forward on all fours my upturned ass and shoulders provide a tempting target for the overseer's cane. As the repeated blows rain down on me I scuttle forward in a vain attempt to avoid the cane. Up until this moment, I'd only had the odd swipe of slave handler's cane to urge me forward or to emphasise a command given to me. And so I knew of the pain a cane can cause.
But I'd not experienced such a sustained beating and the pain I now suffer is intense. I have just one desire and that is to have it cease. Any foolish free pride I possess soon dissipates as I kiss Obadiah Clements's feet.
Having paid homage, I remain in a crouching position waiting for my next instruction. The hem of my Master's caftan brushes against my forehead as I study the quality of his footwear. Given his enormous bulk, Obadiah is at best unsure on his feet - a condition I will become acquainted with over the coming days - and his shoes are made with this in mind.
Handcrafted from the softest quality leather, they are very flexible and shaped to fit his feet like a second skin. As I wait, I can admire the finely grained leather and the exquisite hand-stitching. It would appear that my Master doesn't stint himself in anyway. Whether it is a pair of shoes or a new slave, Master doesn't spare any expense. I know that is so from the high price he just paid for me.
My body stings from the overseer's cane strokes and I wonder if my body is marked by them. I didn't count the strokes; I was more intent on escaping them by crawling to my Master's feet.
I can't see my back, but if I could, I would see there are four criss-crossed stripes on my shoulders and a similar number on my ass. And of course, there are the initial ones on the back of my legs that had forced me to my knees.
If I could see my Master's face, I would be shocked at his look of salacious pleasure as he gazes down on me. I have suffered my first beating as his slave and it won't be the last. I am to discover that all his slaves are perpetually marked by the cane, the strap, and on the more extreme occasion, by the whip. And as of now, I join their unhappy ranks.
"I thank you for your assistance, overseer," Obadiah simpers, "in bringing my slave to order."
"Think nothing of it, Mr Clements. I was happy to oblige and I was only doing my job. Do you need further assistance with him?"
"No thank you! I'm sure I can handle him from here. UP ON YOUR FEET, SLAVE!"
Master's shouted command sees me hastily scrambling to my feet. I stand before him and I submissively lower my eyes to the ground. The tone of his voice combines with the cane's sting to warn me that I must tread cautiously in my dealings with him.
"Heel, Andy!"
I'm left puzzled by Obadiah's command. What am I supposed to do? I know farmers order their working sheep-dogs to 'heel' and I assume that this is what I must do. But how do I heel? How many paces must I walk behind my Master and to which side of his person - left or right?
I am perplexed and unsure of what my Master expects of me. But he gives me further instruction under his 'guiding hand'.
I am unprepared for my Master's stinging slap to the right side of my face or for his torrent of abuse.
"You stupid slave! I gave you an order. Obey me or I'll strip the hide from your back when I get you home."
The threat of a whipping terrifies me and I blurt out my apology.
"I'm sorry Master! But I don't know what to do. How do I heel?"
My contrition seems to mollify my Master's anger and he speaks in a more conciliatory tone.
"Of course, I forgot you're new to slavery and what I now demand from you. I expect any slaves who attend me to walk three paces to my rear. My umbrella slave walks on my right so you must walk on my left. Do you understand?"
"Yes Master!"
I move to three paces at the rear of my Master next to the young umbrella slave who is on my right. Nervously, I look to him - perhaps seeking some guidance by watching what he does - and I see the bleakness of his position. His handsome face is devoid of any expression; except for his eyes which mirror his pain. I see that his smooth, hairless body wears the stripes of a very recent beating and that they match the ones on my back and ass.
I estimate the slave's age at about nineteen or twenty and his naked body is over-adorned with heavy jewellery. There is an ornate torc fastened around his neck with matching amulets around his tight biceps and anklets around his feet. His generous genitalia is overly emphasised by the use of a three ringed cinch which isolates his balls from his cock which itself is thrust forward into prominent, crude display.
His longish, brown hair is tied back into a ponytail - similar to the one Toby now wears - and it is tied with a green ribbon.
The slave's adornments are ostentatious; however, they are an indication of his Master's flair for the tasteless.
I wonder if I am to be similarly adorned.
At the moment, my appearance is in sharp contrast to my fellow slave's. While his body is well- groomed, I have the new slave's rough and ready appearance. I retain my body hair and I wear the temporary, iron collar of the slave-yard.
Obadiah slowly moves out of the yard and back into the selling area. The umbrella slave and I fall into step behind him and the two of us pace ourselves to our Master's cumbersome walk.
Above us another naked slave stands on the auction block and I hear the auctioneer extolling his many saleable features to the remaining buyers. At this late stage, most buyers and vendors have finished their business at the auction and many have retired to one of the nearby taverns to celebrate either a good sale or a worthwhile purchase.
Our progress is laboriously slow and fortunately, Obadiah doesn't stop to talk to several well-wishers who call out their congratulations over the staccato repartee of the auctioneer as he strives to extract more bids from the buyers.
"Well done, Obadiah! Another good buy." Or "You've purchased well!"
Of course, these remarks refer to me and I'm aware that I am the subject of close scrutiny. I hope my Master doesn't stop to talk thereby sparing me the indignity of any personal comments. However, Obadiah is in a hurry to return home - he has his dinner guests to prepare for - and he merely acknowledges the good wishes with an exaggerated, courtly nod of his head or a princely wave of his pudgy hand.
As we pass from the sale-yard, the loud rap of the gavel and the auctioneer's triumphant shout of - "SOLD!" - rings out and announces the successful sale of yet another slave.
We enter the stabling yard conveniently set aside for the tethering of the buyers' and spectators' conveyances. This late in the afternoon, the yard is relatively empty with only a few bored ponies and traps tied to the hitching posts. Mostly, the ponies have to wait patiently while their owners attend to the business of the market and many have been standing in the same spot since early morning. Their distress from their inactivity is obvious as they fidget from their boredom and listlessly shuffle their feet.
And waiting for his return is our Master's litter!
I have seen Obadiah's litter many times; the last was the night of my ill-fated soiree when I'd introduced Antonio Varo's bronze work of the wrestlers to my guests. I recall that night the eight, naked slaves had theatrically gilded bodies after the fashion of a Neronian orgy in ancient Rome. Today, their bodies are still naked but not gilded. Instead, their muscular bodies glisten under a coating of display oil. The eight kneeling slaves, four on either side of the litter, are sitting back on their heels in the resting position and have done so since Obadiah's arrival before the sale. And like the two legged ponies, they wait patiently for their Master's return.
The litter itself is overly ornate; its rich, mahogany timber is hand-carved into all manner of mythological beasts and beings meant to sublimely suggest to the casual observer that its occupant is a 'man of the arts'. Fortuitously, for the miserable slaves who must shoulder the litter, its builder had sought to compassionately ease their burden by building it on a strong, lightweight metal frame rather than a heavy wooden one. Despite this, the litter remains an intolerable burden for its wretched bearers even without its overweight passenger.
The litter is designed so that its occupant can travel comfortably in a reclining position. Its interior is finished in rich, scarlet and gold patterned brocade with matching cushions and a canopy of gold cloth provides welcome shade from the sun's heat and burning rays.
As their Master approaches the eight slaves stir themselves and rise up from the resting position into a kneeling one. Their enforced inactivity has distressed them and their muscles ache from lack of exercise. Paradoxically, they welcome their Master's return for it means they will now be pressed back into service and have the opportunity to ease their cramped leg muscles.
I look to see if Toby is one of the eight kneeling slaves but from the rear it is hard to distinguish between them. Their nudity gives them anonymity and the sameness of their appearance robs them of any individuality. All are uniform in height, build and musculature and only the colour of their hair differentiates them. But their inclined heads makes it even harder to recognise one from the other and I only see their bowed shoulders, their muscular asses and the soles of their feet.
And all without exception bear the stripes of their Master's cane on their backs.
As Master readies himself to climb into the litter he orders me to,
"Andy, drop to your knees and assume the 'all fours' position."
I am puzzled by his command but fearful of his displeasure I do as commanded and wait on his next move. I don't have long to wait; assisted by the umbrella slave, Obadiah attempts to use my back as a step up into the litter.
I am unprepared for this and my arms buckle under the bulk of my Master's weight. As I struggle to regain my balance, he teeters precariously on my back and is forced to step down. His frustration at my failure explodes into cold anger as he viciously kicks me in the ribs and tells me.
"You stupid, clumsy dolt. I'll teach you to be more careful for your Master's safety!
But even this doesn't soothe his anger; from somewhere within the litter he retrieves a leather strap and viciously lashes my unprotected back with surprising strength. In coming days, I will see this scene repeated with frightening regularity. I will come to see the true spitefulness of Obadiah Clements's nature as he punishes his slaves for even the most trifling offences.
I have nowhere to crawl away from my Master's physical onslaught and I have no other option other than to wait as he works through his anger. But each blow adds to my pain and soon I hear my self- pitying pleas for leniency.
"Please Master, please no more?"
How quickly I have adjusted to the mindset of a slave!
Eventually my Master has vented his spleen and once more I am commanded to assume the 'all fours' position.
This time I am better prepared and I tighten my arms and legs to take the weight of my Master's body and I straighten my back to provide a stable foothold for him. Once more he is assisted by the young slave to clamber up onto my back; momentarily, he pauses and grinds his heel into my flesh. It is as though he is testing me to see if I will again buckle under his weight. I am determined not to do so and despite my shame at his humiliating use of me as a 'footstool' I remain rock solid steady.
He steps from my back into the litter and above me I sense - as I can't see - him settling into the thick, cushioned luxury of his litter. The young slave folds his umbrella and places it somewhere within the litter and waits. Then, at Obadiah's command, he too climbs into the litter and lays full length at his Master's side and awaits his pleasure.
I'm still on my hands and knees and wonder what to do. I raise my head slightly and see that the bearers are still in a kneeling position. However, I can see from the tension in their muscled backs that they are ready for action. Like the well-oiled cogs of a machine or the tightly wound springs of a clock their bodies are perfectly attuned to their labours.
On Obadiah's imperious command to "STAND!" all eight litter-bearers move as one; with effortless precision they rise from their knees to their feet. Their movements are fluid and reflect the training they have received at the hands of their Master.
I follow their lead and stand.
Expectantly, the slaves wait for their next instruction but Obadiah addresses me.
"Andy, you will walk alongside my litter and pace yourself to the bearers' speed. And you will also remain in step with them. One thing I can't abide is sloppiness in how my slaves' deport themselves. Stand up straight and walk tall. And keep your eyes straight ahead of you. I won't have you gazing around at what's happening elsewhere. Disobey me and you'll be added to the list of bearers who have already offended me and, with them, you will be punished when I arrive home. Do you understand me?"
"Yes Master!"
"Good! Then let us move. WALK ON!"
Simultaneously, all eight slaves lead off with their left feet and I do the same and fall into step with them. We move out of the comparative calm of the sale-yards into the busy street leading towards the city centre. Soon we are caught up in the chaos of the city's late afternoon traffic. As required by the city ordinances, the litter travels on the left of the road to allow room for faster moving traffic to pass us.
I'm acutely aware of my nakedness. This is my first appearance as a naked slave on the streets of the city and I am convinced that all eyes are focused on me. I'm yet to understand that most passers-by are unaffected by my nakedness. I am a slave and as such they pay me no attention. I will learn whenever a member of the public does show any interest in me it will be to admire my body and to compliment my Master on his ownership of it. But for now I am humiliated by my nudity and I feel the great weight of my shame bearing down on me.
Mindful of my new Master's instructions, I keep my eyes focused on the way ahead. This gives me an opportunity to observe the display of raw muscle and the animal like strength of the litter bearers. The late afternoon sun glistens erotically on their oil-coated bodies and highlights the muscular perfection of their naked physiques. This in turn, emphasises the muscles in their strong backs interacting with one another as they move forward. Their biceps are rounded balls of hard muscle as the slaves carefully balance the litter on their broad shoulders while the striding out of their powerful legs provides the litter with its motive power.
Suggestively, their trim, rounded buttocks undulate in time with their steps and for the first time I catch an occasional glimpse of their low-hanging, cinched balls bobbing between their thighs. Soon the heavy burden of the litter and its two occupants has the slaves panting from their exertions. I hear their laboured breathing and see the accelerated rise and fall of their chests.
Then their Master's order is given to.
"Increase your speed! Faster damn you! Move your lazy asses or I'll have you all caned when we get home."
In response to their Master's incessant demands, the slaves do quicken their pace but the effort soon proves difficult to maintain as they stagger under the combination of unrealistic speed and intolerable weight. Their ragged breathing turns to rasping as they hungrily gulp air into their oxygen starved lungs. The fluid, comfortable ride enjoyed by their Master now becomes a lurching test of his endurance. As the slaves' knees buckle and the litter sways from side to side, Obadiah is fearful of being toppled out of his litter should a slave falter and stumble.
Reluctantly, he gives the order to.
"Slow Walk!"
Obadiah is aware that he has pushed his litter-slaves to the limits of their physical endurance and he is displeased with their inability to match the speed he required of them. As the slaves regain their footing and the litter steadies itself, he thinks darkly about the ingratitude of his slaves. He is a good Master isn't he? And the miserable wretches are well cared for aren't they?
As their owner, he provides them with a dry stable and warm, straw bedding for their nocturnal rest and they have two, generous meals a day; one when they wake and the second at the end of the day when their labours cease. It's true they miss out on a midday meal but practicality dictates the circumstances of that situation. Mostly, the litter-slaves are in service during the day and it would be impossible to feed them. And really, Obadiah has decided they perform better with their bellies empty and their digestive systems not overtaxed with processing food.
Obadiah is running late; his business at the slave-market had kept him longer than he'd expected and it isn't unreasonable of him to ask for a little extra effort from his slaves. One would think the ingrates would have extended themselves - and gladly so - to deliver him home in time to prepare for his dinner guests. This would be a way for them to show their appreciation of belonging to such a benevolent owner. Surely, that isn't asking too much of them?
The more he thought on this the blacker his mood became. Well, two can play at the game of give and take. Tonight, there'd be no evening meal for the litter-slaves and he'd have his major domo give each slave a severe beating of ten strokes of the cane.
Perhaps a night with an empty belly and a blistered ass will refocus their minds on their slave duties and responsibilities to him.
Agitated, Obadiah reaches out to the young slave lying at his side and begins to fondle his balls. As he manipulates both balls between his forefinger and thumb, his mood mellows. For Obadiah, a slave's 'worry beads' have a soothing effect upon him. He thinks about Toby and how his balls always calm him. Perhaps his newest slave's balls will have a similar effect in moments of stress.
This sweetens his mood and now his thoughts centre on his new slave; the former art dilettante, Andrew Trevorrow. Poor, foolish Andrew! One could almost feel sorry for him. But really, his undoing was of his own making. After all, he was nothing more than a country bumpkin who'd held artistic and social pretensions far above his true, social status.
In reality, he'd quite liked Andrew; there was something very likeable about him if one was prepared to look beyond the farmer's ruddy complexion and soiled fingernails. But of course, there was his appalling countryman's accent to contend with which did tax even his good humour and patience.
As an aside to that, Obadiah reflects that his new slave, Andy will need to be trained to speak with a more refined air. But then as a slave, Andy won't be required to speak that often and like all his other slaves he'll need to keep a still tongue in his head.
But really, it had all been too much when Andrew had bought Antonio Varo's bronze wrestlers. Such a magnificent work of art belonged with the true connoisseur - such as he - and not with some illiterate art novice. He'd go further and describe Andrew as an art barbarian who'd overreached.
Obadiah had inwardly seethed as he'd unveiled the statue of the two wrestlers at Andrew's invitation. He'd been indignant when Andrew had asked him to be the guest speaker at his soiree which presented the statue to the public for the first time. His first inclination was to say no and to snub Andrew's attempt to break into his city based circle of true art lovers. As the undisputed doyen of the group and its arbiter of good taste, he had standards to maintain and Andrew Trevorrow's noveau riche aspirations were out of place with them and should be firmly rejected.
Of course, Obadiah had convinced himself that envy of Andrew's acquisition of the wrestlers had no part to play in his initial re-action to Andrew's request. However, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. After all, here was an opportunity to closely inspect Varo's latest work at close hand and to grandstand before a gathering of his fawning admirers. And there isn't anything that the opinionated Obadiah enjoys more than to pontificate at length before a captive audience. And so he'd graciously accepted Andrew's invitation to unveil the statue.
But the night had left him appalled. Andrew Trevorrow's gaucheness manifested itself in all the wrong ways. The food was uninspiring and obviously it had ben mass produced at the local tavern; although, in fairness, the wines had proved to be surprisingly good. But the entertainment! What could one say about that?
The main attraction for the guests' entertainment had been a series of wrestling bouts between Andrew's brutish, farm slaves in a sunken pit of red, oil-soaked soil. When introducing the bouts, Andrew had explained that this was a form of Asian wrestling which he'd read about and he'd decided it was an appropriate theme for his soiree. His introduction was politely accepted without any great enthusiasm.
Poor Andrew! He'd gone to great pains to impress his guests and failed dismally.
Obadiah had tried to look interested as the slaves slipped and slithered their way through a series of boring, elimination bouts. But, undoubtedly, the highlights of the night were the superb, young slaves who served as food and drink waiters. The sight of their naked bodies excited Obadiah and he over indulged with both food and drink. He made a point of asking Andrew about these slaves and was surprised to hear that he'd hired them from the upmarket, gentlemen's brothel, the Patroklos Club.
For Obadiah, these slaves were the only bright spot in an otherwise truly forgettable evening.
Not surprisingly, things began to spiral out of control for Andrew shortly after his soiree. Foolishly, he'd already sold his farm steward, Toby and without his guiding hand, Andrew unwisely over extended his lines of credit and lost everything. Fortuitously for Obadiah, Andrew Trevorrow now finds himself as Obadiah's newest slave, Andy
Still as he looks out at Andy he is well pleased. The slave is eminently suited for his future role as a carrier of his new sedan chair and a bearer for his litter. And turning his gaze to the opposite side of the litter he sees Andrew Trevorrow's former slave Toby.
Obadiah has plans for both slaves beginning this very night. He's invited a few close friends from his art loving circle to dine with him and to witness Andy's induction into slavery. Andy will be known to them - indeed they'd been invited guests at his disastrous soiree - and Obadiah considers it will be amusing for them to watch as Toby prepares his former master for his new slavery. Toby will trim and shave Andy's body of all his body hair and when he is slave smooth, Obadiah will order his new slave to kneel before him as he fits him with his neck torc and genital jewellery and ties a satin ribbon in his hair to match the one worn by Toby.
Then as the centrepiece for the night's entertainment, Obadiah has organised an erotic tableau where he'll order Toby to fuck Andy. That should prove a delightful diversion as he and his guests enjoy their dessert and drink their coffee.
Indeed, it will be a sight to savour as the slave Toby fucks his former Master. Obadiah chuckles at the thought of Andy's ultimate humiliation.
Then, tomorrow morning, he'll take both slaves to pick up his new sedan chair. He is excited at the prospect of having Andy and Toby carry him home for the very first time.
But before that, he has one other important chore for them to perform. First thing tomorrow morning, he'll have both slaves carry Antonio Varo's wrestlers into the front foyer of his home and mount it on the marble plinth he'd specially commissioned as its permanent home. There, it will serve as a constant torment to his new slave Andy of his stupidity in selling his devoted slave, Toby and also as a sad reminder of the life he'd once enjoyed but had lost so recklessly.
Obadiah has been very fortunate! He'd cannily negotiated with Andrew Trevorrow's creditors to buy the statue for a fraction of the price that Andrew had paid for it.
Smugly, he congratulates himself on his astuteness in acquiring both the statue and its former owner who must now serve him as a slave.
Yes indeed, life is good and Obadiah savours the moment. His rotund belly quakes with his mirth as he thinks on this. Then reaching out to the young slave lying at his side he seeks relaxation as he leisurely toys with two very lively 'worry beads'.
You can access the Jean-Christophe stories by joining the archive group at http://groups.yahoo.com/Jean-Christophe_Stories