THE AFTERMATH 2 'Legacy and Consequence' Chapter 2: Trial and Retribution
This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age of eighteen years
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Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): February, 2012 An archive of my stories can be found at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories
The ideas and characters contained 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, make alterations or add pictures."
Chapter 2: Trial and Retribution
"Stand at full display, boy! Mr Russell wants to inspect you."
The tone of Dave Matheson's demand leaves me in no doubt. I am to suffer the indignity of a full body appraisal by Theodore Russell.
After all, I know what is involved in a pre-sale examination. Several months ago, I'd subjected the former soldiers Grigor and his friend, Axel to such inspections. Already, I have suffered the indignity of two thorough appraisals; the first was the initial one by the courts' officials when I was enslaved and a second one under the expert hands of Dave Matheson upon my arrival at his slave dealership.
Three days ago, I'd been taken before the judge in the special court which deals with bankrupts like me. My appearance was a formality and the conclusion a forgone conclusion. Mine was the first case for the day and it was scheduled for 10.00 AM.
I'd been taken into custody immediately my creditors had foreclosed on me and all my assets - the farm, my slaves, my livestock, my personal effects and even my prized statue of the two wrestlers - were seized and placed under the court's administration.
I'd spent the interim between being taken into custody and my court appearance in the city jail-house with other non-violent types such as bankrupts, white collar fraudsters and petty criminals. This morning many of them share the display podiums with me. Like me, they'd been tried, found guilty and sentenced to slavery. The law stipulates that all newly enslaved criminals are to be sold at the first available slave auction after their convictions. Today is that day!
As I said, my case was the first hearing for the day and I have to say justice moved swiftly. Punctually, at 9.50 AM, I'd been lead into the courtroom dressed in the humiliating yellow and black uniform of the unconvicted criminal and wearing heavy shackles around my wrists and ankles.
This gave me time to look timorously around the courtroom and I was surprised to see many of my art-loving friends were present. Had they come to lend me moral support or to gloat over my downfall? Instinctively, I knew it was the latter.
And prominent among them - in the very front row of the visitors' gallery - was Obadiah Clements.
I hadn't seen Obadiah since the night of my soiree when he'd waxed lyrical over my two wrestlers. And if it's possible, he seemed to have gained weight since that night. Certainly, in the interests of personal comfort, he'd found it necessary to sit in the front row which allowed him to spread his considerable bulk over an area that would normally seat two to three. Attending Obadiah was a body-slave who I instantly recognised as my former slave, Toby.
Our eyes locked and then shamefaced, I looked away from Toby, but not before I glimpsed the deep hurt and sorrow in his eyes. What had I done to him? What pain had I thoughtlessly caused to this man who'd served me faithfully as a slave, a lover and a friend?
Had his new master brought him into the courtroom to witness my very public disgrace? Was Toby there to gloat over my downfall? If this was so, I deserved both.
But this wasn't the Toby I knew from old. He looked fitter and leaner than when I'd sold him. His superb musculature was highlighted by the highly perfumed slave oil that coated his glabrous nakedness and there wasn't an ounce of fat on his smooth, hairless body. Toby's fitness shouldn't have surprised me. I knew that Toby - as well as serving as one of Obadiah's body slaves - was used by his master as a litter bearer. And I had seen Toby used in that capacity on two occasions as he struggled under the intolerable burden of the heavy litter and its monstrous occupant.
Toby now wore an ornate torc of plaited gold around his neck rather than the serviceable, plain iron collar that had marked my ownership of him and he had identical ones fastened around his wrists and ankles. Additionally, he also wore smaller, matching bands around his genitals. One band isolated his balls causing them to hang low between his strong thighs while the second band lewdly thrust his semi erect cock forward into prominent display.
Toby's dirty-blond hair was longer than I had allowed and was tied at the nape of his neck with a blue ribbon. Tousled ringlets framed his handsome face and highlighted his deep sea-blue eyes, ruby-red lips and pearl-white teeth.
It seemed to me that his master had tried to 'dandify' Toby which of course reflected Obadiah's well-known ostentatious and lecherous tastes. But Toby's masculinity is such that it can't possibly be diminished by any vulgar display. Somehow, Toby's upright bearing rose above his master's foolishness.
Nevertheless, my heart skipped a beat as I glimpsed Toby. He was the manifestation of male beauty in all its perfection. He was the personification of what I had once owned and had capriciously caste aside for the cold, lifeless figures of the two bronze wrestlers.
I'd been attracted to the static, heroic proportions of the naked wrestlers and overwhelmed by the artistry of their creator, Antonio Varo - who, incidentally, was also present in the court. Yet, as I glimpsed Toby that day, he outshone them. His body was far more heroic and it pulsed with life. The blood that coursed through his veins energised him and gave his body warmth. With every movement, no matter how slight, his muscles rippled beneath the healthy glow of his lustrous skin. His breathing gave him a life force; the steady rise and fall of his chest and the contractions of his stomach were evidence of that life.
At the sight of Toby, my eyes brimmed with tears. I've cried a lot in the days leading up to and since my court appearance. They were the selfish tears of the self-pitying and caused by the fears of an uncertain future. But three mornings ago, the tears I shed in the courtroom weren't for me. They were tears of my deep remorse and I shed them for Toby and the great wrong I'd done to him.
If only I could turn back time and have the wisdom of hindsight? How different things would be.
As I wept, I heard the sniggering of my erstwhile friends in the body of the courtroom. I was ashamed that I had ever considered them worthy of my friendship. Theirs' were the friendships that demanded much, took all and gave nothing in return.
Toby is only a slave - the lowest of the low in our class conscious society - and yet he possesses the strength of character and a nobility of spirit that my former friends could never aspire to.
Foolishly, I'd preferred them and their crass shallowness to Toby's genuine love. Toby's was a love generously and unconditionally given and without any expectation of reward. In the silence of my guilty mind, I asked - 'Toby, what have I done to you?' If I could, I would kneel before you in front of my former friends and beg for your forgiveness.
I wished I could have taken Toby into my tight embrace and to feel his hot breath on my cheek. I ached to feel his strong arms encircling me and to feel his strong body making contact with my own fear-trembling one. I longed to feel the red-heat of his hard erection seeking out my own and to reach behind him and to lovingly caress the smooth rounded curves of his ass.
My thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the presiding judge who was to hear my case. The spectators who filled the courtroom fell silent as the court official commanded.
"All rise for the Honourable Judge Michael J Prendergast!"
I watched as Obadiah Clements tried vainly to heave himself from his seat and to stand. Toby turned to assist his Master and as he did so I saw the angry red and blue stripes of the cane and the whip which covered his noble shoulders and shapely ass.
The sight of Toby's cruel suffering affected me deeply and my tears for him flowed more readily.
A silent sob strangled itself deep within my chest and my heart broke for Toby and for the injustice I had done to him.
As I stood before him, the judge balefully peered down at me from the lofty heights of his bench. I wasn't questioned - indeed I wasn't spoken to. The court clerk introduced me to His Honour as Andrew Terence Trevorrow, bankrupt and the defendant in this case.
In answers to his questions, the clerk told the judge that my debts were as yet of an indeterminate amount but on the most conservative estimates there were considerable and already in the many hundreds of thousands of drachmae. This solicited a shaking of the head and a 'tut-tut' from his honour through pursed lips.
The judge had before him a sheaf of papers. For the next few minutes he shuffled through these pausing from time to time to look down at me over the rimless spectacles he wore at the end of his nose and to shake his head.
I knew my fate was inevitable and that I would leave the courtroom as a slave. Nevertheless, I trembled from the emotion of the events taking place around me. The fact that I was the central player in these events isolated me and I was overwhelmed with a sense utter desolation and deep despair.
My words can't adequately convey the dreadful loneliness of my situation and unless one finds himself standing in my place they are without meaning.
Altogether, my trial took less than twenty minutes. I wasn't represented by legal counsel and I wasn't asked to enter a plea. I'd already been adjudged guilty and my appearance in court was a mere formality. It was a necessary legal precursor to my enslavement.
Judge Prendergast castigated me on my recklessness in living beyond my means and for my reprehensible - no, he corrected that to criminal - behaviour in borrowing money without adequate security. In doing that, I had exposed decent, law-abiding folk to my bad debts. He reminded me that the law took a dim view of such 'white-collar' crimes and that the penalty for my offence was mandatory; therefore he had no other option but to sentence me to lifelong slavery.
Then, he ordered the court's officers to take me into custody and deliver me to the court's assessor for my enslavement papers to be made out before I was taken to the forge for branding and collaring.
The judge's words swirled around in the maelstrom of my raw emotions and at the mention of the brand and collar what little courage I had deserted me. My resolve broke; I fell to my knees and begged for mercy. Of course, I knew none would be shown to me. Nevertheless, that didn't stop me from pleading.
There remained just one ceremony for me to perform before I was led out from the courtroom to begin my life of slavery.
I was ordered to strip and to remove the prison garb I wore. I'd entered the court in the shameful yellow and black uniform of the criminal and I was to leave it humiliated and slave naked.
The shame I felt as I publicly stripped naked will stay with me through the long years of my slavery. Eventually, I will accept my nakedness as an inevitable part of my life as a slave. But the humiliation of stripping naked for the first time in the crowded courtroom will never go away.
As I stripped, I heard the sniggers and ribald comments of my former friends. But these no longer mattered to me. Too late, I'd learned the friendship which I'd sought from them and which I thought they'd extended to me was a forlorn hope on my part. That day, I learned that friendships can be fickle and easily broken!
Even Obadiah was stirred by the spectacle of me removing my clothing. He leaned forward and watching my every movement, he licked his lips with lascivious interest.
Then, I looked at Toby to see if he too was rejoicing in my very public disgrace. What I saw cut me to the quick.
Toby's face showed his compassion and concern for me. His eyes, misted by his tears, met mine and I could see in them that he still loved me. I am unworthy of that love!
That was three days ago and after leaving the courtroom; I was taken down a long corridor to a door with a grey, frosted glass panel upon which were inscribed in bold, black letters.
Office of Slave Assessments and Registrations Registrar: Cyrus T Humboldt
I was the first to be enslaved that day and little time was wasted in assessing me.
The registrar, an overly officious, little man dressed in a white uniform, was assisted by a youth he called Jason and a naked, unnamed slave aged somewhere in his thirties.
Under the fussy direction of the registrar, Jason and the slave assistant measured, weighed and minutely examined me for any flaws or visual body defects. I was made to tauten and twist my body so that my musculature was displayed to its full potential. Each muscle group was poked and prodded and commented on by the registrar with grudging praise.
My balls were hefted and weighed in young Jason's cupped hand before he stripped my foreskin back along the shaft of my cock so that he could squeeze my piss-slit in a test of its cleanliness and good health. Then, it was the slave assistant's turn; he was ordered by the registrar to 'milk' me.
I soon discovered this use of the word 'milk' was a euphemism for masturbation.
Humiliatingly, I stood as the slave worked hard to bring me to a full erection. His job was made difficult for him by the fact that I was having trouble in getting 'hard'. Traumatised by all that was happening to me, I wasn't in the mood for any sexual activity.
Despite the impatient exhortations of the registrar, my cock didn't respond to the slave's frantic manipulations; wilfully it refused to yield even the 'proverbial inch.'
Finally, his patience at an end, the registrar retrieved a short, leather quirt from a bench and applied it to my ass taking care not to mark my flesh where I was to be branded. I'm not sure of how many strokes I received - I was aware of five- but after that I didn't count. He berated me for my 'lack of co-operation' and said.
"Boy you're now a slave! And a slave does as he is commanded. I need you to cum so that I can test your sperm count. Who knows - your new master might want to breed you. He needs to know whether or not you are up to the task. Now relax and give my slave a sample of your semen."
Somehow, I did manage to relax -perhaps it was a new slave's fear of the whip that wrought the change in me - and incrementally I felt my cock lengthen, thicken and grow harder as the slave assistant continued to 'fist' me.
However, my power of endurance was sadly lacking and still not fully erected, I soon shot my load into the glass container held over the head of my cock. I have to say this was among the quickest and least enjoyable of the many ejaculations that I have experienced over the years.
The slave held the jar before me and waited for my spasms to subside before he handed my 'sample' to the registrar for his assessment. Humiliated, I was left with a quickly wilting cock with a thin viscous thread hanging from its opening.
"HUMPH! The slave has produced a goodly sample. Let's see how many swimmers there are?"
The registrar's comment degraded me and then I realised that as a slave I am to suffer such degradation every day for the remainder of my life. Humiliation and shame are the very hallmarks of a slave's existence.
I watched as the registrar examined my semen under a powerful microscope before inviting Jason to see how active my sperm were and I cringed as the registrar said.
"Well Jason, so far so good! It would appear from the quantity and quality of the slave's sperm that he could very well qualify as a potential breeder. Of course this doesn't guarantee his fertility but I'd be surprised if he isn't. Still, that's for his new owner to establish. However, the potential is there and I'll just enter that onto his registration papers."
The registrar moved with quick efficiency. Already two other newly enslaved criminals were brought from the courts into the room and made to stand against the wall as they waited for my assessment to finish and their own to begin.
Quickly, I was ordered up onto a stainless steel bench and placed in an 'all fours position' whilst the registrar examined the internal health of my ass and finger tested it as a potential source of pleasure to a future master. I passed with flying colours and turning to his young, trainee assistant, the registrar declared.
"The slave's ass is as clean as a whistle and as tight as a drum!"
All that remained were the last examinations of my eyes, ears, nose, mouth and teeth before I was given my inoculations against influenza, pneumonia and tetanus. I'd always taken great pride in the pearly-whiteness and the evenness of my teeth and these too were favourably commented on by the registrar who told his young assistant that my new owner would be spared the expense of any big dental work for the 'foreseeable future.'
The injections were swiftly - but not painlessly - given in my ass by an inexperienced Jason under the registrar's expert tutelage. Facing forward I couldn't see Jason actually use the syringes but I certainly felt every jab. It would appear that no consideration is given to a slave. Any pain or discomfort caused to him is of absolutely no consequence.
Yet, despite my yelps of outraged pain, I knew that infinitely worse pain awaited me at the forge where, no doubt, the branding iron was heating up.
With a series of sharp, dismissive slaps on my ass and which echoed hollowly around the room, the registrar commanded me to clamber down from the inspection bench and into the clutches of two, burly overseers who half dragged and half carried me out from the court-building across the enclosed courtyard to the forge.
I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster. Vainly, I tried to dig my toes and heels into the hard, unyielding surface of the yard but they could find no purchase on the cobblestones. Desperately, I wrestled all the way but I was no match for the combined strength of my captors. My incoherent shouting - and vain pleas for mercy - reverberated around the high brick walls and attracted the attention of the blacksmith who came out of the forge to watch as the first of today's new slaves was delivered to him for collaring and branding.
The forge, where the newly condemned slaves are branded is a fearsome place and as I was dragged kicking and screaming towards it I was reminded of a scene from Dante's Inferno. The front of the forge opened on to the yard and I could see into its soot blackened interior and noted the array of rusting chains and manacles which hung down from the smoke grimed rafters.
As I was dragged through the opening into the interior of the forge, I saw two, young slave assistants busily working the bellows which fanned the flickering, orange-yellow coals on the hearth back into life until they glowed with angry, fire- red intensity. And protruding ominously from the bed of superheated coals was the handle of a branding iron.
The air inside the forge was oppressively hot and stank of scorched flesh, urine, excrement and vomit. But most of all it reeked of raw, human fear and unbearable suffering.
The naked, bodies of both slave assistants were bathed in heat induced perspiration. Their sweat-soaked torsos reflected the ruddy glow of the hearth and their glistening skin helped accentuate the erotic play of their powerful chest and arm muscles as they pumped the bellows.
"Is this the first for the day? Bring him in and place him on his knees. I've got his collar ready and the iron's heating up!"
These words were spoken by the blacksmith, a brutish man who worked stripped to the waist. He wore a leather apron - obviously as a protection against the sparks of both the anvil and the forge - but it did nothing to conceal the simian like hirsuteness which covered this limbs and the front and back of his body in long, coarse black hair. His appearance was intimidating and I quaked in fear as I was forced to my knees before him.
Fearfully, I listened as he ordered one of his slave helpers to fetch a collar from a bench somewhere in the gloomy recesses at the rear of the forge. I watched wide-eyed as the slave returned with the brand new iron collar which was now to be fitted around my neck.
But I had a momentary reprieve! As the blacksmith took the collar from the slave, he exploded in a paroxysm of anger. Lashing out, he knocked the slave to the floor and retrieving a leather strap - I didn't see from where - he laid into the unhappy wretch furiously lashing his shoulders and back. Obviously, the slave had fetched the wrong collar and he was paying a high price for his inattention. Unhappily, he had no other recourse than to curl his body into a foetal position and wait until his master's anger was satiated.
As a master, I'd not been averse to whipping a slave if there'd been the necessity to do so. I had seen the whip used on my slaves and so I shouldn't have been surprised at the scene being played out before me. But on my farm the whip had been used only as an incentive to keep a slave focused on his labours and very rarely had Toby ever needed to resort to flogging a slave as punishment.
And this surely was a testament to Toby's excellent stewardship more so than to my leniency as a master!
But the blacksmith's thrashing of the young slave was extreme and its brutality shocked me. Perhaps, I was witnessing it through my 'new slave's awareness'. Certainly, the awful realisation that I could now be subjected to similar treatment fixed itself firmly in my mind. I learned just how precarious the life of a slave can be. Punishment for a slave is never far away and can come unexpectedly at any time purely on his capricious master's whim.
As the slave cried out in his pain, I trembled to think of what now confronted me as a slave.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the slave's ordeal was over and much chastened he scrambled to his feet and hurriedly returned with the correct collar. I'm not sure why the first collar proved unacceptable to the blacksmith. I guess he had his reasons and certainly it's not for a slave to question those reasons.
Next, the blacksmith turned his attention to me, and cuffing my ear, he ordered me to bow my head while he placed the hinged collar around my neck. How do I describe my feelings as the heavy, unyielding metal band encircled my throat? Even the unbearable heat of the forge couldn't take away the chill I felt as the blacksmith snapped the collar shut or stop me from shivering as he hammered the final spigot through both end lugs of the collar.
The collar's strangeness weighed heavily on my spirits and its constriction reminded me that Toby had worn an identical collar since boyhood. I'd always seen Toby's collar as the natural order of things and I can't ever recall - not even once - questioning its unfairness. It was a constant reminder to me that Toby was my slave and I'd just accepted its presence as the appropriate mark of my ownership of him.
I wondered how Toby had really felt about wearing the iron collar of slavery. Did he at any time share my new sense of shame at this symbol of servitude which declared to the entire world that, as its wearer, I am now a slave?
But worse was to follow. It was time for my body to be permanently marked with the ignominious "S" for slave brand.
Rough hands seized my shoulders, as acting on the blacksmith's command; his two slaves hauled me to my feet. The two, muscular slaves were powerfully built and I was no match for their combined strength as they dragged me unceremoniously across to the waiting table. Vaguely, I heard my howls of protest join with my vain pleading for mercy.
Effortlessly, my handlers lifted me high to belly flop me onto the branding-table with such force that I was temporarily winded.
Sobbing wildly, my pleas for mercy grew louder even I knew they'd be ignored. My struggles were futile and I felt the tightening of the bonds as they were fastened around my wrists and ankles securing me to the bench and immobilising my body. My body was stretched out tautly along the length of the bench top and my movements were restricted to the nervous, quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I greedily gulped for air and the almost explosive beating of my heart.
I turned my head toward the forge and my eyes widened with terror as I saw the blacksmith pull the branding iron from its fiery cradle of hot coals. My body was convulsed by my incoherent sobbing as I caught sight of the red glowing symbol for 'slave' at the end of the long-handled brand. My vision and all my thoughts were centred on the branding iron.
I waited with bated breath and tried to brace myself for what my over-active brain told me would be unimaginable pain. Futilely, I struggled in my bonds as my naked ass heaved and my over-stretched muscles bulged and flexed as I fought vainly against the ropes holding me firmly to the branding-bench.
"Hold him steady!
In response to the blacksmith's instruction, I felt a firm hand pressing down on my ass preventing me from wriggling or squirming and I knew my branding was imminent. I waited; in the dreadful anticipation of the hot iron searing itself into my flesh and feeling the inevitable agonising pain as it did so. How long did I wait?
I don't rightly know, but each second seemed an interminably long time. My heart pounded, my laboured breathing quickened and I was lathered in a fear induced sweat. Then, I heard the sizzling and smelt the scorching of my flesh as the blacksmith pressed his iron into my buttock.
Momentarily, I felt nothing and then my nervous system exploded into violent activity as it carried the signals of my agony to my brain. I heard my own high pitched shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain throughout my body. The intensity of my suffering was unbearable and my loud sobbing only added to my misery. And intruding into this suffering was the thought that - 'I am now a branded slave.'
No time was lost in unfastening me from the table; but once on my feet, my strength failed me and my knees sagged as I was half carried in the powerful grip of the two slaves to the recuperating pen.
There, exhausted and traumatised by my ordeal, I was roughly thrust through the door and collapsed to the straw covered floor of the pen. I was left to lie semi-dazed to await my pick- up and delivery at the end of the day to Dave Matheson's Slave Dealership.
During the course of the day, I was joined by fifteen other new slaves who like me were convicted of non-violent crimes and sentenced to the mandatory 'for the term of natural life' slavery.
That was three days ago. This morning they stand with me on the viewing platform as the eager buyers examine us prior to our sale.
Suddenly, I confronted by the slave-dealer, Dave Matheson and Theodore Russell who is accompanied by his two sons and his estate manager.
Dave Matheson 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. As I 'dance a jig' on my podium, he imperiously orders me to.
"Stand at full display, boy! Mr Russell wants to inspect you.
Trembling, I hasten to obey.
To be continued.....