Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES A Sequel to `A Reversal of Fortune' Chapter 10:
"Welcomed into the Household"

   This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the age
of eighteen years

   Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) Read my stories at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

   "The characters and ideas contained in this story are the writer's and
shouldn't be used without permission.  Please respect the integrity of the
story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."

   Chapter 10: "Welcomed into the Household"

   Suddenly, standing here fastened to Norge, everything takes on a surreal
quality.  So much has happened to me this afternoon that my mind still
isn't able to take it all in.  I am lost in a blur of bewilderment and
disbelief; a fog of confusion and fear.  Everything has been taken from me-
EVERYTHING!  My fortune, my freedom, my name and I now stand as a naked
slave in the courtyard of the home that was mine just six hours ago; the
home that now belongs to my Master, Guy Maratier.

   Fearfully, I watch the activity going on around me.  Grouped in front of
me are the fifteen household slaves who had so recently belonged to me and
whose ranks I have now joined.  No doubt they too are confused and
bewildered by this sudden turn of events.  Their old master now stands
before them as a naked slave and like them he wears the collar and brand of
their servitude.  And probably they wait in fearful anticipation of our new
Master's attitude towards them; no doubt wondering in what way their lives
are about to change?

   They haven't been dismissed and shuffle uncomfortably as Cato orders
four of them to bring out the whipping bench from within the stables. 
Nervously, they hurry to do his bidding.  The fifteen slaves have been
witnesses to these events before.  Indeed, at my instigation, all of them
have been unwilling participants in the grim ritual about to be played out
before them.

   Acting on Cato's suggestion, my Master has commanded him to initiate me
into the household.  It has been a long held Barrois tradition that a newly
purchased slave receives ten strokes of the cane immediately upon his
arrival back from the slave-market.  This is done to establish his new
master's authority over the unfortunate slave and to serve as a practical
warning of the punishment given for any infraction of the rules governing
his behaviour.  It is a practice I'd enthusiastically and thoughtlessly
continued after my grandfather's death and it is ironic that I'm now to
fall a victim to my own cruelty.

   Mine however is to be a special "welcome".  Instead of the usual ten
strokes, my Master has doubled that number and I'm to receive twenty
strokes with the new and improved WHIPPISTIK that I had recently issued to
Cato for use on my slaves.  I've already felt its cruel sting as I was
driven from the court-room to the Assessor's Office only a few short hours
ago.  My balls still ache with the wasplike pain it caused me and I
remember my futile attempt to crawl away from the WHIPPISTIK as the
slave-handlers drove me on my hands and knees down the long passage.  Now
I'm to feel its fiery fury once more as Cato applies this new cane to my
body.

   I know what to expect from Cato.  He's never held back when caning a
slave and each stroke is delivered with a powerful sweep of his muscular,
whipping arm.  How many times have I listened to the sibilant swish of his
cane travelling through the resistant air?  How many times have I heard the
loud thwack as it lands on its victim's exposed body?  And how many times
have I closed my ears and heart to the slave's cries of pain and pleas for
leniency?  They are far too many for me to recall.

   Cato takes his time in caning a slave.  He never hurries the punishment.
I recall him telling me once, that a caning should be a learning experience
for a slave and that he needs to feel his punishment to better understand
it.  Therefore, Cato administers each caning or paddling -but paddling is
another story-very slowly and methodically.  Between each stroke, Cato
pauses long enough for the slave to savour his pain and to vocalise his
suffering and he very deliberately avoids the cane striking the same spot
twice.  This is what now confronts me and I'm terrified.

   I wonder about my Master's scarcely concealed hatred of me and this, no
doubt, is the reason why he's decided to double the number of cane strokes
I'm to receive.  During the course of the afternoon's events, it became
clear to me that he carries a great hatred for the Barrois name.  With some
justification, he blames them for the poverty of his former life and for
the suffering of his grandmother, Charlotte Maratier.  I'm not to know that
his hatred of the Barrois family was nurtured by Charlotte's unrelenting
bitterness directed at her brother-my late grandfather-and me.  But as the
last to bear the Barrois name, all that pent-up hatred and bitterness is
now centred on me.  I have been brought undone by them and I'm to pay a
high price in the Maratier's desire for revenge.  I sense Guy Maratier's
intention to make me live every moment of my slavery and instinctively I
know I can't expect any mercy or forgiveness from either him or his
grandmother.

   My Master has walked to the entrance of the court-yard to farewell the
two court officials sent by Judge Matthews to ensure the smooth transition
of the ownership of my former property into his possession, He has left me
in the presence of my former lawyer, Simon Barrow, who has elected to stay
and watch my imminent introductory to slavery caning.

   Simon stands before me and attempts to goad me into a re-action with his
insults and taunts.  Perhaps he hopes I will respond which of course as
slave I'm not allowed to do; any retort from me would see an automatic
increase in the number of strokes I'm to receive.  Not wishing to add to my
impending caning, I remain silent with my head bowed.  Yet the bitterness
my enforced "humility and acceptance" of his torment seethes within me and
I feel the bile rise in my throat.

   I'm genuinely surprised at his animosity towards me; it shows in his
eyes and in his barely concealed pleasure at seeing me as a slave.  My
dealings with him had always been cordial-or so I thought-and I'd never
been discourteous to him.  It's true our relationship had been conducted on
a purely professional basis and I never looked on him as a friend but is
that sufficient grounds for his now vehement satisfaction at my plight.  I
don't understand why this is so and yet; so many times today I have been
exposed to similar feelings of hostility.  This makes me wonder about
myself.

   In my former life, I'd received the respect and courtesy that my Barrois
birth right demanded.  It's true that I'd not cultivated many friends among
the city's elite and I'd remained aloof from the business intrigues of
those I was forced to deal with.  His was done by design.  It was the
policy of my grandfather and I'd simply followed in his footsteps.  But I
was always courteous and scrupulously honest in all my dealings.  To my
knowledge I'd never knowingly hurt anyone nor cheated them and as far as I
knew I hadn't any enemies.  But this afternoon, I have seen so much
satisfaction expressed at my downfall and felt so much hostility that I'm
forced to ask myself-WHY?

   It would appear that I'm universally hated for reasons unknown to me. 
Added to the trauma of now finding myself a slave, I'm shattered by this. I
wonder what I have done to deserve all that is happening to me.

   Norge stands quietly alongside of me watching as the whipping bench is
carried out from the stables.  Is he reliving the occasion when he was
"welcomed' into my household?  Does he relive the moments and the pain of
his caning?  Will he take satisfaction in seeing me on the receiving end? I
ask myself-can I blame him if he does.

   As I look at Norge and the other slaves, I'm deeply affected by my past
treatment of them.  My indifference to their pain and suffering shames me
and once more my eyes fill with tears of guilt.  Norge hears my gentle
crying and puzzled by this, he looks at me.  For the second time this
afternoon, I sob out my heartfelt apology to him.  I hear myself saying,

   "I'm sorry, Norge.  I'm so sorry."

   His eyes widen in surprise and he looks searchingly into my face. 
Perhaps, just perhaps, he recognises my genuine remorse.

   Deep within me I know my apology is useless.  It changes nothing and it
doesn't undo the past.  Norge is still a slave and will remain so for the
remainder of his days.  Of course, I'm not to blame for the fact that he is
a slave.  The courts made him so.  But I did take advantage of that and
bought him for my own selfish purposes.  I had thoughtlessly humiliated him
by my public inspection and purchase of him at the sale-yards, my very
public use of him as naked pony and I had gone on to shame him by using him
for my own sexual gratification without regard to his own inclinations. 
Finally, I had degraded his manhood by skinning him.  And indeed I'd never
considered these things.  He was a slave-my slave-and I was his master and
my needs were paramount.  Now as a new slave, I recognise my thoughtless
cruelty and lack of compassion not only for Norge but for all my former
slaves.

   My apology to Norge is heartfelt but I know I'm not entitled to his
forgiveness.  Nor do I expect it.

   I continue to ignore Simon Barrow's taunts and turn my thoughts to my
impending caning.  Acting under Cato's direction, the four slaves have
placed the whipping bench in the centre of the courtyard and I watch as he
carefully checks and positions the leather straps that he'll use to fasten
me in place.

   In the past the caning bench has never concerned me overly; now it takes
on the appearance of a grim instrument of torture.  It is made all the more
fearsome by my knowledge that I'm to be fastened to it and caned.

   In appearance it resembles a workman's bench and stands at waist high.
Its operation is simple.  The victim is made to stand at one end which is
heavily padded to protect his genitals when he is bent double and then his
ankles are fastened to the upright legs.  Once his ankles are secured, he
is made to bend at the waist and rest his upper body, face down on the
bench top.  Then his arms are stretched out to their full length before him
and fastened by leather straps.  Effectively, with his body stretched taut
and his buttocks at the correct height and angle, the slave is now ready
for chastisement.  The cane can now be applied to his shoulders, lower
back, arse or the back of his thighs; the choice for this rests with his
master.

   Being made of solid timber, there isn't any give and the slave feels the
full force of the blow delivered to his body.  This particular horse has
been in service from long before I was born and it has seen much service.
Its timber top has been worn smooth by the friction of countless, naked
bodies and polished to a dark patina by the fear induced sweat of its many
victims.

   Fearfully, I look on as Cato limbers up by swinging his cane through the
air.  He always does this before a caning; as he once told me, "to loosen
up his whipping arm".  As he swipes it through the air, I'm alarmed by the
noise this new cane makes; it is so unlike the normal cane which makes a
soft hissing sound as it travels through the air.  By comparison, the new
WHIPPISTIK has been designed to make a loud, whining noise as it moves
downwards to its victim's body.

   The manufacturers of the WHIPPISTIK use this noise as a feature in the
advertising and selling of their product.  In their words "the high-pitched
whine of the `WHIPPISTIK' adds an extra sensory dimension to the
chastisement of a slave and helps focus his mind on his punishment".

   I have heard this noise before but I had never concerned myself with the
effect it has upon the slave undergoing a caning.  Now it terrifies me. 
With my caning only minutes away, I can well imagine how a slave feels as
he listens to the frightening sound of the cane descending to land on his
body.  With each swipe of Cato's arm, I cringe in trepidation.  Simon
Barrow smilingly notes my distress and taunts me,

   "Just think, boy!  You're about to get your first caning as a slave.  I
hope it hurts like hell and I hope it's the first of many."

   The sound of the cane attracts my Master's attention.  He takes his
leave of the court officials and hurries over to where Cato is practising
his technique.  Simon now loses interest in me and joins them.  I watch as
Cato explains the features of the cane to his new Master and Simon.  Both
show a keen interest in it and after a lesson in its use; they take turns
in swishing it through the air.

   Cato's limbering up has unsettled the watching household slaves who
nervously shuffle their feet as they wait.  They know what is to happen. 
After all they have all been in the same position as I now find myself.  As
their former Master, I know that the caning of a fellow slave unsettles
them.  Obviously, they are happy that it is another slave -and not them -
who is being caned but contrary to public perceptions, slaves are capable
of emotions and do feel one another's suffering.  I've always felt forcing
slaves to witness a fellow slave's chastisement is good for them.  It has a
salutatory effect upon them and in the days immediately following a caning,
their behaviour is exemplary; they become diligent, conscientious courteous
and eager to please.  From a master's perspective, I'd always felt this was
good for my slaves and contributed enormously to the peace and harmony of
my household.

   But now my views have changed; I'm the slave who is to serve as an
example to them and whose caning will ensure their continuing good
behaviour.

   My state of mind is fragile to say the least.  The cataclysmic events of
the afternoon have been devastating and I have this awful sense of
vulnerability.  For the first time in my life I have no-one or anything to
cling to; everything has been stripped away from me and I have an
overpowering sense of loneliness.  Quite obviously, I'm now reviled by all
free men and despised by my new slave brethren.  Through my tears of
self-pity, I wonder if it will always be like this.

   Then unexpectedly, I see Norge looking at me; what is that look I see in
his eyes?  Is it pity?  Perhaps in recalling his own enslavement, he does
feel some small measure of sympathy for me.  Then he smiles and for the
second time today, I draw comfort from a fellow slave; I fondly recall the
gentle touch of the assessor's slave as he helped me up onto the scales.

   My gratitude for Norge's unexpected gesture is overwhelming.  Am I
entitled to read into it his forgiveness for the wrongs I have done him? 
Suddenly my master/slave fondness for Norge begins to take on a new
dimension.  Where it will take me is unclear.  I just know that now I see
Norge through very different eyes to those of the former Lucien Barrois.

   I draw strength from Norge's smile and I feel I can confront whatever
awaits me.  But as my Master, accompanied by Simon Barrow and Cato walk
toward me I begin to quake with fear for I know they have come to take me
to the whipping bench.  I try not to show my fear and stand erect with my
head bowed.  Simon is the first to speak.

   "Well Guy!  It looks as though you've scored yourself a prime slave with
Rafe.  Do you mind if I inspect him?"

   "No, not at all Simon.  Be my guest."

   Again I detect the eagerness in my Master's answer.  He appears happy to
"show me off" to whoever asks.  I surmise this is yet another way to
further humiliate me.

   I stand quietly as my former lawyer slowly moves his hands down over my
chest and cruelly pinches my nipples.

   "He's a bit hairy," Simon comments as he ruffles my chest hair, "which
suits him.  Personally I like a slave with a bit of hair on his body.  Are
you going to keep it that way or shave him, Guy?"

   "He'll keep his body hair for the time being but eventually he's to lose
it.  I'm taking him out to La Forêt for six months and I not sure whether
the field slaves there are smooth or natural.  So I'll wait and see what
happens when we get there.  But personally I think slaves look better with
smooth bodies and when he returns from his stint at La Forêt, he'll be kept
smooth like all my other house slaves.  That is the tradition isn't it,
Cato?  That all the house slaves are kept smooth?"

   "Yes, Master.  Both my former Masters insisted their slaves have smooth
bodies and as you can see all your household slaves are kept that way. 
They shave their bodies daily.  What do you want done with Rafe, Master?"

   "For now Cato, he's to have just a slave haircut.  As soon as we are
done with his caning, I want Rafe attended to.  He's to lose those long
curls and be sure you crop his hair close to the skull the same as the rest
of the slaves.  "

   "Very well, Master.  I'll see to it myself."

   "Oh and Cato!  I see all the other slaves wear cinches around their
genitals.  Make sure that Rafe is similarly dressed will you?"

   "Yes Master."

   Simon moves his hands down over my belly and takes my cock in his hands.
However his attempts at bringing me to life are fruitless; I remain
unmoved. My fear is greater than my desire.

   "That's disappointing.  I can't seem to get his prick up."

   "I not too concerned about that, Simon." My master laughingly replies to
Simon's complaint about me, "I guess if you were to about to be caned,
you'd have a limp dick too.  Actually he and the pony put on a very good
show for my new neighbours a short while ago.  I've got to say I was most
impressed with both of them."

   Losing interest in my cock, Simon now examines me from behind; he slides
his hands from the saddle of my shoulders down over my back to my arse
where he pauses ostensibly to judge the firmness and strength of my
buttocks.  But his hands tell me this isn't the true reason for showing
such interest in this part of my anatomy.  I'm very much aware that his
hands are fondling and caressing me.  Instinctively, I know his interest in
me is sexual.

   I'm surprised at this sudden revelation.  Simon and I have associated
with one another for several years-admittedly it was always on the basis of
business-and nothing he'd ever said or done had indicated that he enjoyed
sex with a male.  The thought flashes through my mind that had I known or
suspected this, my attitude towards him may have been different.  Aged
somewhere about thirty, he is an extremely handsome man with an impressive
physique which he usually highlights by wearing tight-fitting jeans and
shirts.  Ironically, several times over the years, I'd found myself
lustfully assessing his body and regrettably, I never did get to see him
naked.  I assumed he was heterosexual and I respected that.  He obviously
assumed the same about me.  He kept his secret well as he wouldn't have
wanted to reveal his true inclination to me for fear of any prejudice on my
part and jeopardising our business arrangements.  Now that I'm a slave, he
need have no such worries and with my Master's permission, he is free to
submit me to the most humiliating of inspections.

   "The slave's got a cute ass," he compliments my Master, "well-rounded,
not overly large and quite hard."

   "You're the second to comment on it." My Master replies, "The old,
retired major living next door described it as "meaty" whatever that means.
I must confess I'm not an expert on the subject.  And now Simon, if you've
finished with your inspection of him, I think it's time the slave had his
caning."

   Hearing my Master's words, my earlier resolve to stoically confront
whatever happens to me crumples and I hear myself pleading with Guy
Maratier.

   "Please Master.  Please don't cane me.  Master, I'll do whatever you
want.  I'll be good, Master."

   As I hear my plaintive pleas, I am sickened at my easy capitulation.  I
have gone from my self-assurance of just a few hours ago to the whining,
begging slave that I now am.  But I don't care.  My fear of the cane
outweighs my self-respect and I continue to beg as Cato unfastens me from
the cart.

   "Please Master; you don't have to do this.  I'll do whatever I'm told.
PLEASE MASTER!  PLEASE!"

   My pleas go unanswered.  Nothing will save me from my Master's need for
revenge or from Cato's strong arm and cane.  But then how many times have I
listened to a slave begging not to be punished and on every occasion I had
closed my ears to his pleas for mercy.  Why then should I expect to be
spared?

   I resist Cato's attempts to lead me to the whipping bench.  As he pulls
me forward by the chain attached to my collar I pull back and we are
engaged in a tug-of-war.  But it is a battle that I must lose.

   Cato has the advantage over me; he is bigger, heavier and stronger and
with my wrists still fastened to the back of my neck collar I am powerless
to use my arms.  All my efforts place a great strain on my neck muscles and
I'm forced to yield.  As Cato continues to tug at my neck chain I slowly
give ground.  But I continue to resist and in a final, desperate but futile
action, I throw myself to the ground.

   Exasperated, Cato calls forward two, burly slaves from the watching
group and orders them to haul me to the waiting bench.  I am no match for
them and with one on either side of me; I'm quickly dragged over to the
bench and thrown face downwards on to its hard, unyielding surface.  Cato
wastes no time in attempting to tie me down.  As the two slaves battle to
hold my upper body down on the bench, I continue to struggle and lash out
at Cato with my feet as he tries to pull my legs apart.  The fight however
is to prove uneven and I'm no match for Cato and the two slaves. 
NevertheIess I continue to kick out with my feet and I hear Cato's angry
call for further assistance.

   "Ben, get over here and hold his leg steady."

   I feel my former body slave, Ben's hands on my left leg holding it
steady as Cato tightly fastens the leather strap around my left ankle. 
With that leg strapped into place, it's very easy for Ben to hold my other
leg still as Cato fastens the strap around its ankle.

   Now that my legs are immobilised and my torso held down by the two
slaves, it's a simple matter for Cato to release my arms, one at a time,
and have Ben hold them out full length in front of my head while he fastens
the straps around my wrists.  Cato spitefully pulls the wrist-straps tight
and hisses into my ear.

   "You'll pay dearly for that boy.  I was going to go easy on you but now
you'll feel the full fury of my cane on your ass."

   These words are spoken to me by the man who just this morning had bowed
his head to me and called me "Master".

   I'm to learn another bitter lesson; one that will stay with me through
the long years of my slavery; that a slave's defiance is useless.  A slave
may protest if he's foolish enough to do so.  But he can NEVER win.  The
upper hand always remains with the Master and his agents.  As I former
master I should have known this.  But it wasn't defiance that made me
struggle against Cato.  It is the indescribable fear that churns my stomach
and causes my heart to pound within my chest.

   Cato and his helpers stand back from the bench and wait for Guy
Maratier's instructions.  I'm now hogtied and ready for my caning.  My
upper body is stretched taut and my legs are splayed wide open.  Futilely,
I struggle in my restraints but my body movements are now reduced to the
nervous twitching of my muscles as I await my punishment.

   In the cooling air of the early evening, I feel a sudden chill and
realise I'm perspiring copiously.  The bench top feels wet beneath my chest
and belly and sweat trickles down the sides of my body to moisten and stain
the bench's surface; I'm adding my essence to that of all the other slaves
who have lain and suffered here.

   I'm now displaying the signs of my panic as my heart beats wildly within
me and me my lungs feel as though they are about to burst.  There is a
roaring in my ears and I'm having difficulty in breathing; desperately I
gulp air though my widely opened mouth as though I'm hyperventilating.  My
chest heaves from my exertions and the nerves in my stomach muscles
flutter. And I'm shamefully aware that, with my legs spread wide, the most
intimate and private part of my body -my anus-is open for inspection.  I
feel the quick opening and closing of my sphincter as its contractions keep
time with my rapid breathing; the sensitive tissue surrounding it is
tickled and teased by the slow flow of my sweat as it trickles down through
the course of my ass-crack to my legs.  Totally immobilised, I'm acutely
aware of my complete helplessness and my utter vulnerability.

   Then suddenly I feel a hand pressing down firmly on the top of my ass as
another hand soothingly strokes my back much as one would with a frightened
animal.  Gradually, my panic eases, my heartbeats slow down and my
breathing returns to normal.  I turn my head to see who it is that has such
a calming effect on me and see my Master standing at my side; they are his
hands on my body.

   Idiotically, the thought races through my mind that by this simple
gesture - this placing of his hands on my naked body - he is claiming me as
his new property.  I'm yet to wear his personal brand but his hands have
symbolically marked me as his own.

   Then, with his hand still resting atop my ass, he reaches between my
legs searching for my cock and balls.  I gasp as he none too gently pulls
them back between my legs and cradles them in his cupped hand.  Nervously,
I wait as he examines my genitals.  I feel the skin of my scrotum
stretched, each ball rolled between his forefinger and thumb and the
stripping back of my foreskin from the head of my cock.  I ask myself - is
he genuinely evaluating his new property or is this yet another form of
humiliation he's subjecting me to?  Either way the effect upon me is the
same.  I'm degraded by it.  By this very action, I realise that I'm owned
property and that my body is no longer my own.  Eventually, he's satisfied
and playfully pats my ass much as one does with a pet animal.  By these
actions, my Master dehumanises me and reduces me to the level of a domestic
beast-of burden.  He speaks directly to me.

   "That's a good pair of knockers you've got there, Rafe.  But let's just
tuck them back under out of the way of the cane.  We don't want them
damaged do we?"

   At this point, as he tucks my package back under me, I feel my new sense
of slave worthlessness.  His hands demean me; his touch is more degrading
than the slave collar around my neck and more shameful than my new brand.

   I realise that my caning is imminent and once more my fear causes me to
beg for mercy.

   "Please Master.  Please." I hear my plaintive pleading, "Please Master."

   With my head turned sideways, I look back along the bench at my Master
and Cato who stand directly behind me.  My eyes are wide open with
animal-like fright.

   "You ordered twenty strokes, Master.  Is that correct?  Where on the
slave do you want me to place them?"

   "That's right, Cato.  Twenty strokes on his ass.  He's to receive ten on
each cheek.  Can that be done without interfering with his brand?"

   "Yes Master.  That's not a problem."

   "Oh!  And Cato after you've finished with that he's to receive another
two strokes to the back of his thighs as punishment for his bad behaviour.
He's to learn that I won't accept such behaviour from a slave."

   This increase to twenty-two strokes of the cane panics me and I begin to
shout noisily and I struggle uselessly to free myself from my restraints. I
hear my Master instruction to Cato.

   "Increase that to three strokes, Cato."

   Then, as I continue to struggle I hear "Make it four, Cato."

   Quickly it sinks into my mind that this is an uneven contest of wills
and one which I'm doomed to lose.  It is only after my punishment has been
increased by five strokes of the cane that I admit defeat and lie still. 
My Master chides me on both my behaviour and foolishness.

   "That was foolish of you Rafe.  Your bad behaviour has earned you a
further five strokes.  You of all people should know a slave can never win
out over his master.  As a new slave there are only two options open to
you. To accept your new status and make things as easy as possible for
yourself or to continue to struggle and have your rebelliousness whipped
out of you.  And make no mistake; I won't hesitate to have you flogged if
you decide to defy me or my overseers.  It's your choice.  I suggest you
think about it as Cato canes you."

   Guy Maratier's words disturb me and the frightening reality is that what
he said to me is true.  I recognise the futility of further struggle and
know there isn't any other option but to submit to his will.  Shaking with
emotion-or is it fear-I once more beg for his leniency.

   "Master.  I'm sorry.  It wasn't rebelliousness that made me struggle,
Master.  It was fear of Cato's cane.  Please Master, don't punish me. 
PLEASE!"

   "I'm glad to know it was fear and not defiance that caused you to act
up, Rafe.  But as a slave you need to understand that troublesome behaviour
or a bad attitude will always be rewarded with either the cane or the whip
and there can be no leniency for you on this occasion.  Also Cato tells me
it is a long standing practice that all new slaves are caned on their
arrival here and I can't make an exception in your case.  So let's get it
over and done with shall we.  Then we can all move on.  CATO!  Are you
ready?"

   This is it.  There is to be no last minute reprieve for me.  As I brace
myself for Cato's onslaught on my body, I begin to sob.  My head is turned
towards the watching house slaves and I see both Norge and Ben standing in
the front row.  I am unaware that Norge had been unharnessed and placed
among the other slaves; this must have happened amid the tumult of my
outburst.  Shamefaced, I turn away from them; I don't want to see their
satisfaction at my suffering.  I tense my body and wait.  Then, I hear a
familiar voice; it is Major Swanston from next door.

   "Forgive my intrusion, Guy.  But I heard all the commotion and shouting
and thought I should just check to see all is going well with you."

   "Thank you for your concern, Major.  But everything is in order.  The
shouting you heard was coming from Rafe.  He's not too keen about being
caned as you can imagine."

   "Ah!  It seems I've timed my visit at the right time.  Do you mind if I
stay and watch?"

   "Not at all, major.  You're most welcome.  CARRY ON CATO!"

   Now my world is about to explode into one of pain as Cato takes up his
position behind me.  Once more I tense my body in anticipation of my coming
ordeal.

   Cato doesn't hurry.  He stands behind me and limbers up.  Is he playing
a game with me such as a cat does when toying with a captive mouse?  From
behind me, I hear the fearful whine of the cane and several times I flinch
and cry out in false anticipation of its agonising sting.  After several
such false alarms, I relax my body.  Then I hear the sinister whine of the
cane followed by a resoundingly loud "thwack" as the WHIPPISTIK cuts across
the left cheek of my upturned buttocks.  Momentarily I feel nothing.  In
the split second that it takes for my brain to register my pain I'm
suspended in a limbo of waiting.  Then, as the excruciating pain explodes
throughout my body I hear my detached scream of outrage and pain.  I cry
out to my Master for mercy.

   "OH!  Master, Please, Master?"

   Then once more I hear the dreadful whine of Cato's cane and feel the
awful pain.  Again and again this is repeated.  The advertising claim of
the manufacturers of the WHIPPISTIK is accurate and I can vouch for its
veracity.  There is an extra sensory dimension that adds to my suffering. I
fearfully listen for the sinister whine which I know will be followed
immediately by indescribable pain.  And Cato-true to his earlier threat -
doesn't hold back in his use of the cane; I feel the full force of his
strong arm in each stroke.  Now I'm reduced to an incoherent, sobbing mess.
My pain racked body screams for relief and my voice begs for mercy.

   I'm finding there are two aspects to my chastisement; the physical and
the emotional.  By far the physical aspect is the most obvious.  After all
I'm very much feeling my pain and my audience of slaves and free men are
able to see and hear my suffering.  But the emotional aspect is less
obvious; it is buried within me.  It is deeply personal and it must be
endured by me alone.

   I can best describe my emotions as raw.  At this moment in time, they
are as lacerated as I imagine my ass is fast becoming.  For the first time
in my life, I can see the awful inhumanity of treating a slave in the
manner in which I'm being punished.  Made naked, immobilised and caned at
the behest of my Master, I am reduced to nothingness.  It strips me of my
humanity, deprives me of my individuality and proves my worthlessness as a
person.  My only worth is now measured in my capacity to serve my Master.
It lies in the strength of my body to work for his enrichment and in the
emptying of my mind to all else but his needs.  I am now at the lowest
point of my life and it is at this moment that I fully accept my slavery.
The unendurable pain of the cane has made it so.

   The awful pain I'm suffering convinces me to do everything in my power
to avoid such punishment in the future.  It is true; I've learnt that these
introductory canings for a new slave DO stamp the Master's authority on him
and in Major Swanston's words the whip and the cane "exercise a slave's
mind wonderfully".  I now know that there are only two goals in my new life
as a slave - to serve my Master loyally and obediently and to do all within
my power to avoid his displeasure.

   I have capitulated.  I am now a slave in every sense of the word and
what surprises me is that this has happened within the space of one
afternoon.

   Cato continues to rain blows upon me.  My chastisement has taken on a
rhythmic pattern - one of the whining of the cane, the loud thwack as it
lands on my exposed body and my cry of pain.  They are the only sounds to
break the early evening silence.  Cato has settled into a routine of
deliberately taking aim at a particular spot, delivering the stroke to it
with the full force of his considerable strength and the inevitable long
pause between strokes to allow me to savour the latest one.

   I haven't been counting the strokes; my pain prevents me from doing so.
But as Cato changes his stance and takes aim at my right buttock, I know I
have receive ten of my original twenty strokes.  How long has it taken Cato
to deliver these first ten strokes?  I don't know.  Time seems to have
slowed down for me and I'm only aware of my fear and suffering.  Once more
in desperation, I beg my Master for leniency.  His continuing silence tells
me there isn't to be any.

   Now I feel Cato's cane cut into my right buttock for the first time. 
Nine times this is repeated and nine times I cry out my anguish.  Then
mercifully it stops.  But I know my reprieve is to be brief for I'm still
to receive another five strokes across the back of my thighs.

   Through the mist of my tears, I feel a finger painfully tracing out the
pattern of the strokes on my rump.  I yelp with the distress this causes me
but again I'm ignored and the finger continues with its exploration.  I
turn my head to see who is causing my discomfort and see it is my de facto
grandfather, Major Swanston.

   "I say Guy; this new cane is most effective.  I've got to say I'm most
impressed with it.  This slave won't be sleeping on his back tonight or for
quite a few more, I'll wager." He jokes at my expense and adds, "And I
don't think he'll be sitting down anytime soon either."

   "Any discomfort he feels over the next few days will remind him to
behave himself and not to give offence wouldn't you agree major?"

   "Most definitely, Guy."

   "Good!  Cato, please continue."

   Now I feel the pain move down into my legs as Cato deliberately and
systematically deliver the final five strokes of my punishment.  The pain
caused is no less intense than the earlier, twenty strokes but the break in
between, as the major examined me, has allowed me to gain a little of my
composure.  These final five strokes are something of an anticlimax when
compared to the previous ones.  I'm not to know that the real pain will
come later as over the next few days I embark on the duties assigned to me
by my Master.  For some considerable time this pain will serve as a
reminder of his annoyance at my behaviour and the price I had paid for
displeasing him.

   Now the physical part of my ordeal is over but my misery persists.  I
cry quietly as the house slaves are dismissed and ordered back to their
duties.  I raise my head and watch as Cato leads Norge to his stall in the
stables where he'll be chained up and locked in for the night.  Soon the
courtyard is empty save for me, my Master, Simon Barrow and Major Swanston.
I am the focus of their attention as they talk.

   "Well Guy.  It would appear that you have broken the slave's spirit."
The major volunteers his opinion.  "It wasn't too hard to do and only good
can come from that.  It's good for the slave; he'll be happier serving you
and it's good for you to have a slave who's keen to please his Master.  "

   "Do you really think so, major?  Do you think his spirit has been
broken?" My Master asks.

   "Oh!  Most definitely I do.  I'm older than you Guy and -no offence
intended - but I've had considerably more experience with slaves than you
have.  One thing I can always tell is when a slave admits defeat and
submits to his master.  And this one has, most definitely."

   "I'm disappointed," my Master laughs, "that it has happened so easily
and so quickly.  I was looking forward to a longer tussle with him.  Damn
him!"

   "I wouldn't worry on that score, Guy.  The slave will still need lots of
training and coercion and I'm sure you'll still find enjoyment in bending
him to your will.  Really, a slave never stops learning.  I'm not sure
whether it's their natural stupidity or ingrained wilfulness but slaves are
always in need of correction."

   "I take your point about my lack of experience with slaves, major and
that's a situation I intend to correct very quickly.  But tell me; if
you're correct and Rafe's spirit has been broken - is it always that easy?"

   "It depends on the slave, Guy.  Some new slaves are very strong willed
and resist submitting to their owner's will.  These slaves make their own
lives and those of their owners extremely difficult.  Others are like this
slave and just give in.  Don't forget that just a few hours ago, Rafe was a
free man who'd never done an honest day's work in his life.  He'd been
spoilt by his doting grandparents and lived a life of ease and luxury. 
This made him pampered and soft and unable to cope with any real problems
that came his way.  Why since Jean-Claude Barrois passed on he was always
seeking my advice.  He seemed incapable of making a decision for himself.
But that's not all that surprising now that we know he springs from slave
stock is it?  Confronted with the first big crisis in his life it is easier
for him to simply surrender.  No, Rafe doesn't have the will to fight you;
it's much simpler for him to submit to you.  And now if you'll excuse me
it's my dinner time."

   As I listened to the major's words I realised he is correct.  His
assessment of me is true.  I don't have the willpower or the resolve to
fight against the calamities that have befallen me this afternoon.  How can
I fight against the establishment that has passed judgement on me and
returned me to my rightful place in society?  I was born a slave and
despite the years I lived as a free person, my real destiny is that of a
slave.  I now accept this fact.  I am the slave Rafe and Guy Maratier is my
Master.

   But for all that it is still a bitter pill for me to swallow.

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