Changed Circumstances

"CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES" A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune" Chapter 35: "Norge meets an Old Friend"

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 35: "Norge meets an Old Friend"

Norge:

Tonight, I am tired to the point of total exhaustion. Today, I have been taxed both physically and emotionally.

I am ready to sleep and I move my body in closer to Jake who stirs slightly as I adjust the front of my body into the contours of his back. I wrap him in my arms and draw comfort from the warm hardness of his body. Almost as though it has a will of its own, my cock seeks to lodge itself in the warm moistness of his ass crack. Jake obviously feels it pulsating heat and stirs to push back closer into me. Then, with a soft sigh of contentment, he settles into a deep sleep. I can feel the steady beat of his strong heart and the rhythmic pattern of his breathing through my chest and belly. These sooth me and I too am contented.

I feel great affection for Jake and as I served as a pony to both Lucien Barrois and Guy Maratier, my thoughts often wandered back to him and La Foret. He was the only pleasurable memory I have of the miserable six months I'd spent at the plantation where I was conditioned, trained and made ready to serve as Lucien Barrois's human pony. At first, we had paired off for mutual protection against the unwanted advances and the sexual predations of our more aggressive fellow slaves. Inevitably, our feelings deepened into a genuine affection for one another and we had become lovers.

During my time away from La Foret, I'd thought often of Jake and pictured his suffering as he laboured in the fields under the cruel whips of the plantation's black overseers. Visions of him bent double with his back laid open by the lash distressed me. I wasn't to know that, shortly after my return to the city, the chief overseer, Claymore Jackson had chosen Jake to serve as his personal pony.

Therefore, upon our arrival at the plantation this afternoon, I was surprised and delighted to see Jake harnessed to the overseer's trap and tethered in the shade of one of the enormous trees that line the driveway to La Foret's gracious mansion. I hadn't recognised Jake immediately; indeed I'd not expected to see him other than as a field slave toiling in a distant gang as my Master drove me on a familiarisation inspection tour his new inheritance.

After my exhausting run out from the city, I was hot and fatigued and I was allowed to stand and cool down as my Master and his son were warmly welcomed to La Foret by the chief overseer, Claymore Jackson and the black major domo, Colton.

Peripherally, I was aware of another pony tethered in the shade of a tree but I was too pre-occupied with my own discomfort to pay him any attention. However, I noticed he was very fidgety and I assumed he was being plagued by flies or other insects and was trying to dislodge them. I understood this; many times I have stood immobilised between the shafts while these troublesome pests feasted on my own sweat.

A pony is expected behave himself and stand motionless whenever he is stationary. Friskiness in a pony is frowned upon and is usually rewarded with a few sharp cuts of the driver's whip across the ass or shoulders. And it was inevitable that this frisky pony would attract the attention of his driver.

"Jake! Stand still, damn you! Stop fidgeting or you'll feel my whip on your ass."

Claymore Jackson's admonishment was said without rancour. In fact there was almost a tone of affection in his voice; very much as a parent uses on a naughty child.

This isn't surprising. Most master's quickly establish good working relationships with their ponies and view them with a degree of fondness not afforded to their house or work slaves.

I had this pony/driver relationship with my former driver, Lucien Barrois and slowly my new Master is establishing one with me.

Initially, I resented Lucien and unfairly, I blamed him for all my woes. However, since his own enslavement, I have re-evaluated our relationship as former Master and pony and I now know he was a good master.

Certainly, his attitude always reflected the fact that he was the master and I was his slave but he was never unnecessarily cruel to me. It's true he demanded much of me as his pony and would use his whip to extract the very best from me but he never whipped me in anger. He would run me hard but always, at the end of our drives, he would calm me by soothingly stroking my arm or chest or playfully patting my ass and tell me I was "a good pony" or "well done, boy".

There were even the occasional rewards when he allowed me to nuzzle a slither of apple from the cupped palm of his hand. How I enjoyed the sweet, juicy taste of my reward after the blandness of my gruel. And how I savoured the biting tang of the apple as my tongue licked his hand for every last drop of juice. Unable to ask - I was forbidden to speak and the bit in my mouth made speech difficult - I would look at him and my eyes would plead for more. Sometimes, he'd relent and give me a second slither - but not often. Rewards for a pony shouldn't be overdone else they lose their effectiveness.

So I was surprised to hear Claymore call his pony 'Jake'. Immediately I wondered if this could be my Jake. A glance in the pony's direction confirmed that it was and my heart skipped a beat. Jake had recognised me as we came up the drive and he'd tried to attract my attention by his friskiness. As our eyes meet, we both broke into huge smiles of pleasure. But it is almost impossible to smile with a bit in your mouth and so our smiles were more in the nature of grimacing.

I was happy to see Jake now served as a pony. Life as a human pony is infinitely preferable to the horrors of straining and sweating in a gang of field-slaves. I know for I have experienced both. And sadly, I remembered this is to be Rafe's and Pollux's fate. Really, I have no great sympathy for Pollux - his manner grates on me - but I did feel for Rafe. My own experiences in a field gang and as I underwent my pony training tell me poor Rafe will be stretched to the limits of his endurance - both physically and emotionally.

And I won't be here to help him. Doubtlessly, within a day or two, my Master will return to the city with me and Rafe and I will be parted.

The fact that the parting will be temporary is of poor comfort. I will miss Rafe sleeping at my side and I will miss his loving ministrations as his mouth serviced my cock. In our short time together, Rafe and I have become lovers - of a sort - within the limitations our Master has placed on Rafe's usage. Master has declared Rafe's ass is 'out-of-bounds' and it would be foolhardy of me to challenge his owner's given right to first usage of it. So frustratingly, I must wait until Guy Maratier 'takes Rafe's cherry'. How I envy my Master; for Rafe's ass is a sheer delight. I should know for I have finger tested its tight, warm moistness on many occasions. But finger-fucking Rafe is a poor substitute for the real thing.

Jake's presence is welcome and goes some way to alleviating my sadness over Rafe. I wonder - will we have an opportunity to talk. There is so much I wish to ask Jake. I have so many questions for him. But whether or not we are given this opportunity to talk depends on our Master and his overseer.

I watched as Rafe and Pollux were lead away to the blacksmith's workshop by two black overseers and young Master Etienne. We waited patiently while our Master and his overseers refreshed themselves indoors before emerging to drive to the distant forge. Jake and I stayed in step and paced ourselves with one another as our drivers drove us at a leisurely trot. But I had an advantage; Jake's trap had an additional passenger, Colton, the major domo, who'd expressed a wish to be present as Rafe is collared and branded.

Upon arrival at the forge, Jake and I were tethered alongside one another and even though we couldn't speak, we were delighted to be in each other's company. But my pleasure turned to pain when I heard Rafe's pitiful, but vain pleas to his Master to be spared the branding iron. And his heartrending scream of pain as the iron seared itself into his flesh tore at my heart. Tears misted my eyes as I heard his loud sobbing.

I watched in impotent anger as two, black overseers led Rafe and Pollux to the slave stables where they were to rest and recover overnight before being put to work next morning. My anger increased as I saw an arrogant, young, black overseer impatiently put his whip to Rafe's ass and abuse him.

"Move yo'self, dumbass!"

I listened as my Master and his chief overseer discussed Rafe's immediate future. This discussion was a mixed blessing for Rafe. The overseer told my Master Rafe's endurance and stamina needed to be built up if he is to serve as a pony. I was dismayed to hear his decision that, tomorrow morning, he would chain Rafe to the waterwheel that keeps water flowing into La Foret's extensive gardens and supplies the swimming pool and spas.

But I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard that Rafe is to be protected from the sexual advances of his fellow slaves. Rafe is to spend his nights locked into a security cage. This knowledge that Rafe would be safe was most welcome. However, this consideration didn't extend to Pollux. When asked by his overseer if Pollux was also to be similarly locked in a security cage, my Master's answer was blunt to the extreme.

"No, there's no need. The slave can take his chances as best he can."

Despite my dislike of Pollux, I nevertheless feel sorry for him. Alone in the dark, he will suffer the full horrors of the slave stables and friendless, he will be helpless to protect himself from the depraved attention of his fellow slaves. My time in La Foret's slave stables is still very recent and I know what awaits Pollux. Thankfully, during my stay, Jake and I provided one another with mutual protection.

Poor Pollux! He doesn't have a Jake to help protect him.

Later as Jake and I were unharnessed and hosed down to remove the grime and sweat of the day's labours from our bodies, we received an unexpected reward. Claymore Jackson watched as we were groomed and as our grooms prepared to lead us away to the pony stables, he instructed them to place us in the same stall. The overseer remembered the bond that exists between us and he wished to reward his pony for his good performance.

Good-naturedly, he gave our arses a playful slap and told us.

"I'm sure you two boys have a lot of catching up to do."

His knowing wink was suggestive and left us in no doubt that we had his permission make love.

The months apart haven't diminished our ardour and the night is long. And as the chief overseer had said we did indeed have a lot of catching up to do.

Yet even as I thrust deeply into Jake, I have a guilty image of Rafe before me. I think ahead to the day when I can claim Rafe just as I am doing with Jake right at this moment. And as Jake's tightness squeezes and milks me, I wish with all my heart that my cock was buried deep inside Rafe.

But this is unfair to Jake and I dismiss all thoughts of Rafe from my mind and give myself over to pleasing him.

Finally, I am spent and I seek sleep by snuggling closer into Jake's back. He stirs as my cock finds safe lodgement in the deep cleft of his buttocks and he gives a gentle sigh of contentment. But for now we both need to rest for whatever awaits us tomorrow.

But tomorrow night is another story. It will be my turn to return the favour and open up my body to Jake.

Momentarily, sleep eludes me and drowsily I reflect on the day's happenings.

Rafe and I had been awakened just as the first rays of the sun lightened the predawn darkness and prepared by our grooms for the day. First we'd been fed - sparingly in my case as my main meal of the day isn't given to me until the completion of my day's labours. That way my body can, overnight, take on the sustenance it needs for the following day and void my waste products first thing in the morning.

Most responsible drivers refrain from over feeding their ponies first thing in the morning. An overloaded belly can have a number of unfortunate consequences for both the pony and his driver.

Firstly, a full stomach makes the pony sluggish and slows him down. The other consequences are of an indelicate nature. Given that a pony spends most of his day in harness, it is highly probable that he'll need to defecate at some point and while the general public is accepting of this, the city's governing authority is less so; the laws governing the soiling of public thoroughfares by ponies and household pets are stringent. It is incumbent on all pony drivers and pet-owners to clean-up after their animals and failure to do so attracts a draconian fine.

My Master carries a small, sealed bucket and shovel in the luggage compartment of his trap for just such an eventuality but to date I have never given him cause to use them.

And then there is another less obvious but nonetheless distasteful consequence of driving an overfed pony. The strenuous running and the sheer physical effort required to keep the trap moving places great stress on a pony's digestive tract which- and this varies with the individual - can result in a noisily, repetitive "breaking of the wind". Naturally, a driver sitting downwind of a pony wishes to spare himself the discomfort of this and wisely limits his pony's food intake until the end of the working day.

But again, I am a well behaved pony. I never fart as I run in harness; something my former driver, Lucien Barrois always appreciated.

Rafe and I had been taken by the groom slaves to the ablution block where we'd relieved ourselves before we were hosed down, dried and I had been harnessed to my Master's trap. Rafe had been secured to the shafts alongside of me and I wondered about our Master's plans for us. Even after all this time serving as a human pony, I still find this uncertainty of what the new day will bring as irksome. Of course, as a pony, I'm not entitled to know my Master's movements. All that is required of me is that I perform well and deliver him to whatever destination he decides upon.

But the fact that Rafe has been fastened to my trap is worrying. It indicates to me that my Master is taking him some place and I worry that the place is Lionel Schuster's slave market. Has my Master decided to sell Rafe?

Rafe has been a slave for such a short time and as yet he hasn't fully adapted to his changed circumstances. The thought that he could be sold and parted from me upsets me. Rafe has become very dear to me; which is most strange. In view of the fact that he was once my master and owner, I should hate and resent him. And at first I did.

But there is an indefinable something about Rafe which tore away my initial hostility towards him. Many times since his enslavement, I have asked myself why this is so - after all, don't I have every right to resent him for his treatment of me. I have thought hard about this and wondered - what are the qualities that forced me to soften my feelings toward him.

Rafe has a lingering air of sadness about him. This isn't surprising when you consider all he has lost. Even as I initially rejoiced at his downfall, I was aware that his losses were immeasurable and heartrending. How could I, a simple Norwegian seaman, comprehend all that the former Lucien Barrois had lost? However, despite the great disparity in our backgrounds we had two things in common. We have both lost our freedom! And we are slaves!

I often think back to my own enslavement and I constantly relive the trauma of that event. I still recall the day I had been arrested and hauled into court both as an illegal immigrant and a drug pedlar. It is true that I had thrown caution to the wind and deliberately overstayed my visitor's permit and therefore I have only myself to blame. I had gone on a binge of drinking and whoring that had made me oblivious to time. When, I finally sobered up, I found my ship had sailed without me and even though I didn't know it then, the ships agents had registered me as an illegal over stayer.

Stranded with very little money, I wandered the streets, bewildered and lost before I was picked up by the police and charged. I accepted the validity of the charge that I was an 'illegal' but I rejected the idea that I was a drug dealer. I have never taken any drugs - having seen their effects on some of my fellow seamen was a strong deterrent not to do so - nor would I give them to another. No, those drugs were planted on me by the police to ensure that I was convicted and enslaved.

Being a stranger to the laws of this strange country, I made light of the seriousness of my situation. I entered the court in the belief that I would receive a light custodial sentence and then be deported back to my homeland. I was completely unprepared for what followed.

The shock of hearing the judge's scathing assessment of my character still rankles. I am not the dreadful criminal he described and he was wrong to say I was beyond redemption.

Even as I listened to his words, I knew that I was in trouble but when he sentenced me to slavery for life, his words failed to register. It wasn't until His Honour ordered his bailiff to strip me naked and take me to be processed into my slavery that I understood. I struggled and fought as hard as I could and it took several brawny, security men to wrestle me to the floor. They quickly stripped me of my clothing and using their canes to great effect, they subdued me. As I lay scrunched into a trembling, sobbing ball of misery, I heard the judge rebuke me saying that my behaviour was reprehensible and the only rehabilitation open to me was through lifelong slavery and hard work.

With that, I was hauled from the court, taken to the assessor and when he'd done with me, I was delivered to the forge for branding and collaring. How can I describe my emotions as all of this took place? My mind closed down and tried to shield me from the reality of my plight. But it failed dismally to protect me from the horror and pain of my branding. Sometimes, in the dark quietness of my stall, I relive the pain and humiliation of the branding iron.

Still not fully comprehending all that was happening; I was taken, along with ten other newly enslaved, from the courts to a slave dealership to await my eventual sale. That first night in the pens was a nightmare that still haunts me. I will never forget the squalor, filth and stench of those slave pens nor the wretched nakedness of my fellow slaves. All eleven of us sought out a solitary spot within the pen where we spent that awful first night alone and in total disbelief. Each of us found solace as best we could.

For my part, I cried all night and was fully awake when, first thing in the morning, we were given our first meal of the tasteless, grey, glutinous mess that is now my staple diet. Then we were removed from our cage and made to publicly attend to the 'calls of nature'.

How can I describe my sense of outrage at this treatment of us? I'd always taken great personal pride in myself and to suddenly realise I was a naked slave reduced to the base level of a farmyard animal left me with a sense of shame and self- loathing.

Then we were made ready for inspection. Our handlers sprayed us with high pressure hoses as they scrubbed us clean with a coarse soap, reeking of disinfectant and stiff bristled brushes. Callously, they paid scant attention to our fresh brands and laughed at our cries of pain as the brushes tortured our wounded flesh.

This scrubbing down was my first introduction to the cruel indifference our masters show to their slaves. But it wasn't to be the last. I now encounter this cruel treatment of slaves every day of my life.

Indeed I saw numerous examples of it today as my Master drove out to La Forˆt. We travelled through the 'breadbasket' of the city that supplies it with all its fruits and vegetables and which lies a few miles beyond its boundaries. The city is truly blessed by a bountiful Nature. But, as they buy their fruits and vegetables, do the lucky citizens of the city ever consider the human cost of their good fortune. Do they give thought to the suffering slaves who are driven relentlessly under the whip to work ever harder in their interests? I doubt they do.

Several times my Master halted me so that he and his son could observe the slaves toiling in the fields or he pulled me to the side of the road to allow a team of draft slaves hauling a heavily laden dray to the packing sheds to pass. I watched horrified as these teams of misery strained into their harnesses driven forward by the remorseless whips of their overseers.

And I reflected on my own good fortune. I could so easily be one of them. My life as a pony is infinitely preferable to that of a draft slave. If there is a god who involves himself in the affairs of a slave, then he has smiled on me.

How fortunate I am that Lucien Barrois had bought me to serve as his personal pony and not as a common work slave.

In its own greedy self-interest, this society re- introduced slavery. Often I ask myself does it ever feel guilt for tolerating a system whereby one human being exploits another for his personal gain. If there is a collective sense of guilt, then this society assuages it by denying a slave his humanity.

Slaves are the unwilling victims of their owners' greed and self-interest. By stripping us naked, branding our bodies and placing a collar around our necks, they seek to reduce us to the level of a beast of burden. Then they no longer see us as human; in their eyes we have become mere work animals which justify their treatment of us.

Yet in doing this, they also diminish themselves. Their callous disregard for a slave robs them of their consciences and with each act of cruelty, they shed just a little more of their own humanity. Every time the branding iron sears itself into slave's captive flesh and each time a whip cuts across an unprotected back they corrupt themselves and their society.

Once we were dry, our bodies were coated with a high gloss oil and we were placed in an inspection pen. There, we stood bewildered and uncertain. I kept telling myself this is a bad dream and that I'll awake soon to the real world. But it wasn't a dream and when I realised this, I sought to lose myself among my fellows.

During the morning, a steady procession of prospective buyers wandered through to look at the new livestock. The favoured few were given the privilege of a private viewing and periodically, some of our number were removed from the pen, taken away and returned only when the client had finished his inspection.

This is how I met the man who was to buy me; Lucien Barrois.

He noticed me before I saw him. I was lost in a world of disbelief and I must have presented a forlorn figure as he surveyed me. I only became aware of his presence when he pointed to me and asked if he could view me privately.

As I was hauled from the security of the pen by two brawny, slave handlers, my pent up anger and frustration erupted in a torrent of abuse; I lashed out at them with my feet and shouted the vilest obscenities worthy of any seaman. I struggled all the way as they dragged me to a viewing podium and attempted to chain me into position. However, I was proving too much for them to handle. They were quickly joined by two overseers and under the combined weight of all four; I was forced to the floor of the podium where the chain was quickly fastened around my ankle.

That day, I paid a high price for my rebelliousness and I learned my first lesson in slave obedience. Still on my knees, the two handlers thrashed me with their canes. I tried to protect myself from the angry blows but my efforts were futile. The overseers continued to beat me into submission. Soon my cries of defiance gave way to the tears of acceptance. Then and only then did my beating cease. The physical pain I sustained was as nothing to the shame and humiliation I felt. I had been beaten like a cur and I now lay whimpering at the feet of my tormentors.

And watching my torment was the man who was responsible it; for it was he who'd ask to inspect me. He eyes never left me and the corners of his mouth were crinkled into a smile of amusement. I raised my head to look at him with hate-filled eyes. It was the moment when I laid all my impotent anger, frustrated rage and utter helplessness on the shoulders of Lucien Barrois. He was the manifestation of all that had happened to me over the past twenty-four hours; my enslavement, my branding and now this ultimate degradation of being publicly displayed- naked - for his amusement. At that moment, I loathed this aristocratic, young man and my hatred of him bordered on the pathological.

Of course, Lucien Barrois bought me and I became his slave.

In those first few months, nothing my new Master did altered my feelings towards him and I was determined he wouldn't break my spirit. I endured my welcome home caning in resolute silence; I muffled my scream as he had his brand burned into my chest and, red-faced with shame, I suffered as he exercised his owner's right and 'robbed me of my cherry'.

But these things paled into insignificance when he had me circumcised. At first, he'd been attracted to my foreskin - he played with it a lot - and allowed me to keep it. But he'd eventually grown tired of it and one day he took me to a veterinarian where it was surgically removed. Humanely, he'd allowed the vet to give me a local anaesthetic to kill the pain. I suppose I should have been grateful to him for this but I wasn't. He was instrumental in taking away a potent and obvious symbol of my manhood and I hated him all the more for this.

My time spent at La Foret did nothing to sweeten my mood or to lessen my hatred of the imperious Lucien Barrois. In the first few months, as I laboured in the fields, I only ever saw him from a distance as he drove his pony and trap on his inspection tours.

However, there was one memorable occasion when he and his chief overseer had me taken out of my work-gang and I was made to stand before them as they discussed my progression. My body was pummelled, poked and prodded as they tested it for its hardness. They gauged my muscles for their strength and I suffered the humiliation of having the cheeks of my ass squeezed and slapped as a test of their density and firmness. I bowed my head in shame as Claymore Jackson delivered his verdict on me.

"Well Lucien. He's now ready to begin his pony training. These months working in the fields have worked wonders with him. His development is exceptional. He has a powerful chest with good lung capacity and a hard flat belly. He is long legged with strong, muscular thighs and his ass is a real pony's ass. It's well-rounded and not oversized. That's good! Personally, I can't abide a pony with a big ass; makes them bottom heavy and they look out of balance. I'd rather see such a slave pulling in a team of drafts than between the shafts of a trap. No, this slave is perfect. You chose well when you bought him."

The shame I felt as they discussed me so intimately deepened as the overseer took my cock and balls into his hand and he stroked me to erection.

"He's well-endowed! That's a plus." Claymore exclaims. "Heavy balls too: real low hangers that'll swing free as he trots - and a large cock. He'll show well as he runs and he'll do you proud."

At that stage, I was unaware that I would be required to 'show well' when I am between the shafts. Eventually, I'll discover that the ability to show well is a highly desirable trait in a pony. It is one the buyer looks for when he purchases a pony and it adds greatly to his value. For some reason - which eludes me - a driver takes pride in the size of his pony's genitalia. It really is a case of the more generous the size of genitals the greater is the owner's pride in his pony.

Is there a subliminal message here? Does the size of a pony's cock and balls overcompensate for any perceived self- deficiencies of his owner? I have wondered about this several times as I stood patiently while my genitals were fondled and stroked by an admiring friend of my Master. Usually, these occasions ended with him being congratulated on my good showing.

But one thing I do know; Lucien Barrios had no reason to overcompensate. I know this from personal experience; for on those occasions when he used me sexually, I learned to appreciate that he was very well endowed.

I will discover that running as a pony can be powerfully erotic. Perhaps it is the helplessness of our situations and the knowledge that we are totally controlled by our drivers but most ponies do manage to sport and maintain an erection as they run between the shafts. And I do this admirably.

I wasn't returned to my work-gang that day. Instead, Claymore Jackson took me to the stables and my pony training began in earnest that same day.

Those next few months while I trained as a pony were difficult ones for me. I was trained hard and whipped often until I became the perfect pony. Much was expected and demanded of me and there was an added emphasis to my training. After all, I was special for I was to serve an illustrious Master, Lucian Barrois. However, I prefer not to dwell too much on that unhappy time. Let me just say that as I was trained to serve him, my hatred of Lucian Barrois grew.

It is indeed ironic that the slave Rafe is now to experience first-hand this very same training that Lucien Barrois had demanded of me. I suppose I should rejoice in this; but I don't. I derive no pleasure from knowing of the pain and tribulations that confront Rafe as he is trained to join me as the other half of our Master's 'pair in hand'.

But, I have to say I look forward to Rafe eventually sharing my life both as my team mate and hopefully as my lover. The next six months will be long, lonely ones for me.

Why and when did my feelings towards Lucien Barrois begin to change? Truthfully, I don't know. The change was gradual and I can't recall an exact moment when it began.

Those first few weeks of serving as his pony were humiliating ones for me. As he drove me naked through the city's streets, I seethed at the injustice of my situation and I blamed him for all that had happened to me. I still saw him as the instigator of my downfall and heaped all my pent up anger onto his shoulders.

But as the weeks passed and as Lucien Barrois built a rapport between us, my attitudes began to shift in his favour. It's true that he demanded much from me and his whip ensured I met his expectations. But he wasn't a cruel Master and unlike some others who mistreat their ponies abominably, he never abused me. And as I witnessed those abuses, I came to the realisation that I had a good Master.

One thing a pony does have in excess is the time to think. And whenever I stand tethered and wait for my Master's return I do a lot of thinking. I suppose all ponies do this during their periods of inactivity; they have nothing else to do to relieve the sheer boredom of standing motionless in the same spot.

And I began to think often on how the fates had conspired against me and delivered me into my slavery.

Increasingly, I began to recognise that it wasn't Lucien Barrois who condemned me to lifelong servitude. It was a combination of my own stupidity in missing my ship's departure and overstaying my welcome and the unforgiving laws of the land. When, I accepted that it went someway to mollifying my hatred of him.

Certainly, I'd felt anger when he first bought me as his slave. He was the manifestation of all that had gone wrong for me and he was the scapegoat for all those who'd delivered me into bondage. And so it was very easy for me to focus my suppressed anger and carefully concealed frustration on him.

As I served him, I started to realise the unfairness in blaming him solely and my feelings towards him softened considerably. I still bitterly resented the fact that I was a slave but I began to realise my situation could be worse.

And today, as we travelled out to La Foret, I had glimpses of just how lucky I was to have been bought by Lucien Barrois. His benevolent ownership of me had spared me the horrors of being a permanent field-hand, or worse, a heavy duty, draft slave.

True, there had been my six months sojourn at La Foret but that had been a necessary prelude to prepare me for the comparatively easy life of a human pony. This is something that Rafe is about to discover and somehow I suspect his six months will be infinitely more taxing than mine. For poor Rafe carries an extra burden on his shoulders. Through no fault of his own, he is the reviled 'imposter', Lucien Barrois and he is the helpless target of the Maratier family's hatred of the Barrois name.

So gradually, my feelings towards Lucien changed until a type of peace reigned between us. But to my shame, my feelings relapsed on the day that Lucien Barrois became the slave, Rafe. I now regret my pleasure in seeing him stripped naked, branded and collared and reduced to my level. And it did me no credit as I rejoiced in the shame and humiliation he'd been subjected to by the jeering crowds lining the pavements as our new Master drove us home for the first time. I remember his tears and his sobbing apology to me as he ran at my side driven onwards by the whip of his new Master, Guy Maratier.

His heartfelt words, "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry" tore at my heartstrings and I felt pity for this friendless, new slave who was universally hated and reviled. His words shamed me then and they still do. It was at that moment, I decided to befriend him and to guide him through the first traumatic days of his transition from free man to slave. I felt I owed him that.

Now as Rafe stands tethered at my side and we wait on our Master, I worry that Rafe is to be sold. The thought that Rafe and I are to be parted depresses me. But my fears for Rafe prove unfounded and my mood lightens as the new house steward, Ben fastens the slave, Pollux to my cart. The thought races through my mind that rather than delivering Rafe to the slave-yards, our Master is taking him and Pollux to La Forˆt. And a smug Ben confirms this with his cruel taunting of Rafe.

"Well boy! Today's the day you become a real slave. Our Master is taking you out to his plantation and putting you to work in the fields. How do you feel about that?"

Rafe remains silent and an infuriated Ben viciously slaps his face.

"I spoke to you boy! Answer me."

I am shocked by Ben's behaviour. I didn't know him that well but he'd always struck me as possessing a pleasant nature. He'd been Lucien Barrois' favourite and from what I had seen he'd been well treated by his Master. And so his treatment of Rafe seems very much out of character.

But they say "power corrupts" and this is certainly true of Ben. In recent days he has been elevated to the highest position within our Master's household that a slave can aspire to. He'd gone from being his former Master's bed slave to replacing Cato as house steward. However, this wasn't done through any ability on his part. He owed his good fortune entirely to the machinations of our Mistress, Charlotte Maratier.

She had been instrumental in having the former Barrois house steward, Cato removed from that position and sold and she had also rejected Pollux as our Master's replacement for him. Initially, she'd appointed Ben to the position as a stop gap until our Master found a suitable house steward. But the wily Ben seized the opportunity to insinuate himself into his Mistress's favour. And for some reason she has responded positively to him. Her attitude towards Ben is almost affectionate and so at odds with her normally sour disposition. What is it about Ben that has made him her favourite?

Is it the young slave's sycophantic attitude to her or is it that he senses her implacable hatred of Rafe and plays to this animosity by his treatment of Rafe? Whatever it is, Ben is now her favourite slave and when she moves into the home her grateful grandson has just purchased for her, she is to reward him. Our Master has made a gift of Ben to his grandmother and she is to take her new slave with her to serve as her head of household.

Ben is aware that his Mistress is watching from an upstairs window and no doubt salivating at the thought that today Rafe is to confront the rigours of a common field-slave. He has an audience of one and he is playing to that audience.

Cruelly he swipes his cane across Rafe's ass and demands that he answer him.

"Answer me when I speak to you! How do you feel about becoming a common work slave?"

It would be so easy for Rafe to be provoked into rebuking his former slave but Rafe is learning that a slave must think carefully before answering any questions put to him. I am relieved at his simple reply.

"If it's what my Master wants then I accept his decision."

It is the right answer and it doesn't give Ben grounds for complaint. Nevertheless, he continues with his taunts and tells Rafe about his 'special' relationship with our Master and then he boasts of Guy Maratier's sexual prowess. Crudely, he compares Rafe's sexual performance with that of his new Master.

He tells Rafe there is no comparison and that Lucien had always left him 'unsatisfied'. Sarcastically, he tells Rafe how he'd always faked his responses to Lucien's lovemaking. It wasn't ecstasy that had caused him to cry out but rather the fear of punishment. He tells Rafe that he doesn't need to fake it with our new Master who is a 'real man'. Lucien Barrois was by comparison a 'mere boy' and an inexperienced one at that.

I seethe with anger at this unnecessary tormenting of Rafe but we are spared any more of Ben's vitriol. He falls silent and assumes a position of respect as our Master and his son, Etienne cross the courtyard to where we wait.

As our Master and his son climb into my cart, Ben unties my tether and hands my reins to him. Master doesn't acknowledge Ben; rather he slaps the reins on my shoulders and tells me to "WALK ON!"

As we turn out of the quiet residential street, Master heads me in the direction La Forˆt. I know the route well. I have travelled this way many times under the guidance of Lucien Barrois. Today I am to take my new Master, Guy Maratier to claim "La Foret as his own and to deliver his new slave Rafe into the hands of his black overseers.

I flinch as the whip cuts across my ass and I respond to Master Etienne's shrill, boyish command to.

"Giddy up horsey!"

I break into a smart, high stepping gait. And already I am 'showing well. My Master will be pleased with me.

RAFE:

Nothing in my wildest imagination could ever have prepared me for the nightmarish horrors of La Foret's slave stables. The appalling stench overwhelms me; my nose wrinkles in disgust, the awful smell catches in my throat and my stomach churns in revulsion. The smell of unwashed bodies, stale sweat, urine, excrement and vomit permeates the very air I breathe.

But the real putrefaction of this vile place isn't its squalor or its foul smell. Rather it is the miserable existence of the wretched creatures that inhabit the stables overnight as they rest their tired, aching bodies after their day's labour and allow their muscles and sinews to rejuvenate for tomorrow.

Before today I have never entered into the slave stables. After all, as Lucien Barrois, why would I? My interest in my slaves extended only to their work output and I was totally disinterested in their creature comforts; I left such things to my overseers. I lived a life of splendid seclusion amid the luxury and grandeur of the La Foret's stately home and the green expanse of its gardens of shady trees and sweet smelling plants.

The stables were far removed and screened from my view and I was protected from their putrid stench. I ignored them and subsequently, they never intruded into my consciousness.

In every sense of the word - 'they were out of sight and out of mind". Now they are very much in my mind for they have become my new "home".

These first few hours have been traumatic ones for me and even more so for my fellow slave Pollux. At least I am protected by my security cage from the vileness to which the wild-eyed and weeping Pollux is being subjected. He is the focus of much attention from the bestial inhabitants of this hellish place. Deemed by them to be 'fresh meat' his tormentors wait impatiently in line to rape him. His pitiful pleas for mercy are ignored and are the cause of much coarse laughter. As I watch, I am overcome with pity for his suffering.

And at the same time, I am thankful that my Master was declared "my ass inviolate and out of bounds". Otherwise I would now share Pollux's dreadful fate.

After our branding and collaring, Pollux and I had been fed and watered and then taken to the stables where my handler Sir Conn had placed me in my security cage. My situation is ironic. Just a few weeks ago, I sat with Claymore Jackson as we'd interviewed this self-assured young man for the job of apprentice overseer. The young, black youth had impressed me with his maturity and self- confidence. He was, I decided, just the type of young man La Forˆt required. I'd liked his directness and no nonsense approach to our questions on how he'd handle the slaves in his charge. His enthusiasm was infectious and I smiled inwardly at the thought of my slaves buckling under his strict discipline and whip.

Now of course I am a slave and I will experience Sir Conn's discipline for myself.

Pollux didn't share my good fortune. There's to be no safe haven for him. He was simply night- hobbled and left to take his chances.

Pollux and I waited apprehensively for the return of the slaves at the end of the day. As they were night-hobbled by their overseers and driven into the stable, I was struck by their brutish appearances. They reminded me of dumb beasts of burden.

There seemed to a pecking order in their behaviour as they divided into two groups. One group appeared placidly docile while the other was noisily aggressive. In time, I will recognise one group as submissive and the other as dominant. Tonight however the dominants' interest centres on me.

They know who I am and they are expecting me. They now see their former owner reduced to their level. Like them I am a naked slave and I shudder to think what they'd do to me should they succeed in getting hold of me. But my cage is substantially constructed and it provides me with a solid sanctuary.

Eventually, I will find there is a type of bush telegraph that operates throughout the plantation and nothing escapes their notice. They'd heard of my arrival and now they crowd around my cage as they jeer and taunt me. I am terrified and I try to make myself inconspicuous by crouching in a corner of the cage. This angers them and they begin to spit at me through the tight bars that protect me from their groping hands. In their frustration, they begin to shout and violently rock my prison in the futile hope of dislodging me from its safety.

Their voices grow louder with their violence until their noise attracts the attention of their overseers. Noisily, the door to the stable is thrown open and ten black overseers enter and using their whips to good effect, they disperse my tormentors. Pandemonium reigns as the overseers whip the slaves to the floor. They continue to lash the slaves who, like so many whipped curs, crawl away to their straw bedding.

Finally peace is restored and after Sir Conn has checked my cage, the overseers withdraw. Quietness reigns briefly but then they spy Pollux huddled in a corner. Like a pack of scavenging wolves they descend upon him. Soon, I lose sight of him but I hear his frantic pleading from beneath the scrum of convulsing bodies all eager to be the first to partake of this tasty 'morsel of fresh meat' that their Master has callously tossed to them.

This is to be a long night for Pollux. I try to shut out his loud screams of outrage and pain and his vain pleading. Gradually, his protests weaken and his shouting ceases only to be replaced by his soft sobbing. But even this is drowned out by the animal-like grunts, snorts and farting of the foul creatures who despoil him.

I had disliked Pollux's air of smug superiority and so much about him had annoyed me but he doesn't deserve this. My heart is heavy as I watch from the safety of my sanctuary.

Then a horrifying thought flashes through my mind. Had Norge suffered these horrors on his first night in the stables? Had I been instrumental in him suffering in much the same way that Pollux now suffers? The notion that he had chills me. But I'm not to know the answer to these questions. I'm not to know that Norge had teamed with his fellow slave Jake for mutual protection.

I try to sleep for I know tomorrow I am to be sorely tested and face the most difficult day of my life. Tomorrow morning I will be chained to the waterwheel that supplies La Foret's gardens and swimming pool with a never ending supply of water. There, my labours will be Sisyphean for I will walk uphill on the one spot, going nowhere but achieving much. And I will do this under the direction and the whip of my handler, Sir Conn.

I try to sleep but sleep eludes me. I close my eyes and cover my ears in a vain attempt to shut out the sights and sounds of Pollux's debasement.

To be continued.............