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 `CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES' A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune" Chapter 21:
"What are my Master's Intentions?"

   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"

   Chapter 21: "What are my Master's Intentions?"

   The sound of my nervous breathing is broken by the occasional rattling
of my ankle chain whenever I shift position to ease my leg cramp.  I'm
standing on a raised platform in the middle of a squalid room and all
around about me is the evidence of many other wretched inspections.  Mine
is to be the latest of many stretching back over the years.

   I'm not alone in this room.  Another slave waits with me and watches
over me.  He is one of the trusty slaves whose normal duties include the
control and care of the slaves in the nearby slave pens as they wait to be
sold.

   I'm left to stand in the at rest position with my wrists fastened behind
the back of my neck; this is considered a necessary precaution to prevent
me from pleasuring myself as I wait.  As a slave I'm to learn that even
this most fundamental of personal activities is now denied me.  In future,
I must wait for my Master's permission for any self- indulgence and I will
come to regard the granting of that permission as a major reward.

   I am in an inspection room; it is one of several such rooms and I have
been in all of them at various times.  On those occasions it had been as
the rich and powerful Lucien Barrois when I was there to inspect some
unfortunate slave who'd caught my eye during one of my frequent scouting
tours of the slave pens.  As Lucien, I'd often visited this establishment;
I was always on the lookout for a young, comely slave to grace my bed and
relieve my boredom.  The last slave I'd inspected here was Ben who until
three days ago had been my personal body-slave.

   I'd never particularly liked the proprietors of this establishment and I
suspected the feeling was mutual.  They hadn't liked me -no doubt seeing in
me all the arrogance and snobbery of what passes as polite society in our
city.  After all, they are slave-dealers and as such are regarded as the
lowest of the low and are shunned by all decent folk.  However, they were
always very careful not to show their dislike of me and they had adopted an
obsequious manner in all my dealings with them.  This had repulsed me and
thinking back I suppose my attitude towards them showed my distaste.  I had
always disliked the older partner, Lionel Schuster.  But they are the
city's leading slave-brokers and their livestock is second to none.  They
only deal in prime slaves, offering them to the high end of the market and
I'd never had any complaints about the quality of the slaves I'd bought
from them.  My relationship with Schuster and Hanson's, whilst never close,
had been mutually beneficial.

   It's ironic then that I stand once more in this room; not as Lucien
Barrois looking to inspect a likely slave but as the slave Rafe.  I am
naked, shackled and stand on an inspection podium waiting to be assessed by
Lionel Schuster.

   Nervously, I gaze around the room and see it through a slave's eyes.  I
take in the general shabbiness of the room; its walls, once pristine white
are now a dirty grey colour and marked with unidentifiable streaks.  The
once white ceiling is stained by the countless cigars chewed on and smoked
by an eager clientele as they inspected and haggled over the displayed
livestock.  The air in the room hangs heavy with their pungent odour and my
nose wrinkles in disgust at the other less obvious smells of human sweat,
urine, excrement and vomit.  And somewhere in that malodorous potpourri are
the smells of raw fear and human misery.

   As Lucien Barrois I had accepted this stink as a necessary part of
handling slaves in much the same way as a farmer does with his livestock.
Now as the slave Rafe, I am appalled.  Now I am so much a part of all this.
I look down at the platform beneath my feet and I see the surrounding floor
is mysteriously blotched and stained.  My experiences within this room tell
me these as the piss and semen stains left by all those slaves who have
previously stood here.  I wonder - am I to add to them?

   In front of me is a table on which lie an assortment of containers and
bowls.  I shudder as I look at them for I know the uses they can be put to.
As Lucien Barrois I had often utilised them.  To one side of the platform
there is a raised, waist-high inspection bench complete with restraints for
the head hands and ankles.  How many times have I ordered some wretched
slave to lie stretched out on this bench as I examined him?

   On the other side of the podium there is waist-high trestle with wrist
manacles and shackles for the ankles.  I recognise this as being similar to
the flogging trestle I'd been fastened to yesterday.  However, its primary
use isn't for caning - although it can used for this - essentially it is
used to hold a slave still should a buyer wish to test-drive him.  I know
this is so because I have used it on occasions and the last time I did so
was the day I'd inspected and bought Ben.  I was always a passionate
believer in try before you buy.  But now it fills me with apprehension and
I'm left wondering if it'll be used in my own imminent inspection and
valuation.

   Standing alongside the testing trestle there is a table.  Lying on this
table is an assortment of various sized dildos.  The sight of these causes
me to tremble.  I think of all the times when I'd thoughtlessly used them
on some unhappy slave to gauge the size of his hole or to test his
responses to an anal intrusion.

   I have been left to wonder at the events that have brought me to this
place.  Am I now to be sold?



   >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

   This morning had started out as usual.  The first, pale light of the new
day was just lightening the predawn gloom of the stable when I stirred and
found myself still wrapped in Norge's strong embrace.

   As with the previous night, Norge and I had slept in the spoon position
with his chest and belly pressed up against my back.  The delightful
sensation of his massive, early morning erection pressing hard against my
sore ass added to my pleasure.  I luxuriated in the sensation of his hard
body making contact with my own and I reflected on our new found regard for
each other.  I felt the steady rise and fall of his chest and his warm
breath falling on my shoulders.  I was content to just lie still and enjoy
the all too brief moments before we are woken and prepared for our day's
labours - Norge will be harnessed to our Master's cart but what about me?

   Today, will I again be harnessed to one of the mowers and spend my day
dragging its dead weight behind me?  I am stiff from yesterday's exertions;
very muscle in my tired body still aches from my unaccustomed labours and
my ass feels as though it is on fire from yesterday's unexpected caning.

   Perhaps today, I'll be returned to the wood-heap to continue splitting
the logs into manageable size for the cooking ovens and heating furnace. 
My puny exertions of two days ago have made little inroads into the
wood-pile and it remains as immense as ever.

   Which do I prefer - the wood-pile or the mower?  The simple answer is -
neither.  But then my preference doesn't matter; the choice is not mine to
make and my Master will decide that for me.

   The stable lightens and we are roused by Cato and his grooms.  Norge and
I disentangle ourselves and stand ready for our early morning meal.  I
watch as Norge rubs the sleep from his eyes and stretches to relieve his
sleep cramped muscles.  He retains his erection and his cock juts out at
right angles to his belly and I am very aware of my own pulsating
tumescence.

   Last night, I reciprocated Norge's previous night's kindness and
pleasured him with my mouth.  I'd never done that before to either free man
or slave.  It was a first for me and I now know it won't be the last time.
It had unleashed in me such pleasures and emotions previously unknown to
me.

   In the past, I'd always been the receiver of pleasure; my slaves were
there to satisfy my demands, my lusts and whether they derived any pleasure
from their interaction with me was inconsequential.  This is the true
selfishness of a master.  Norge has taught me the opposite to that.  I now
know that there is as much pleasure to be gained from the giving of oneself
as there is in receiving from another.

   I watch Norge as he stretches and I am in awe of his magnificent
physique and the power of his body.  As his Master, I had always
appreciated Norge the slave; after all it was his sheer physicality and
magnetism that had both attracted and aroused me at this very same slave
dealership twelve months ago.  Now I see him very differently.  I am no
longer his master.  I have been brought down to his level and I see him as
a fellow slave.  Do I regret that we are now equals?  The answer is no!

   Of course, I naturally regret the loss of my freedom, my possessions and
the perfect life I'd enjoyed until three days ago and I hate the fact that
I am now a powerless slave.  If by some quirk of fate I regain my freedom
and have my old life restored to me then I would be overjoyed.

   If this happened, where would this leave Norge and my burgeoning love
for him?  Once more, I'd be the master and he'd be the slave.  How would I
respond?  As a slave I see Norge as an equal.  Thinking hypothetically -
and should I become free - would I also see him as my equal?  My answer to
that is unequivocally - YES!  My first act would be to free him and make
him my partner for life.  But why torture myself with such thoughts; like
Norge I am a slave for the remainder of my days and at least for the
foreseeable future we will serve together as our Master's ponies.  There is
some solace and happiness in this for me.

   We follow our usual morning routine; we are fed and watered, taken to
the latrines to relieve ourselves and then to the ablution block to be
prepared for the day's activities.  Today, however there is one very
puzzling change to that routine.  Cato joins us in our preparations.

   We watch as he submits to the indignity of having his subordinate grooms
work on his body.  He kneels as the clippers are run over his scalp
shortening his hair to the required slave crop.  His body trembles
uncontrollably as he is body shaved and made to join Norge and me under the
biting cold water of our showers.  I wonder - as no doubt he does - what
does this mean?  Cato is shocked and bewildered and he worries about the
implications of all that is happening to him.  It would seem that the
grooms no longer see Cato as their superior and are acting under orders
very much independent of him.  Which is in fact the case; they have been
instructed by our Master to prepare Cato at the same time as they work on
Norge and me.  Like Cato, they haven't been given a reason for why this is
happening.

   Our preparations now completed Norge is placed in his harness, hitched
to his cart and tethered in the courtyard to await our Master's pleasure. I
fully expected to be placed in my harness and taken out to a waiting mower.
Instead Cato and I have our wrists fastened behind our heads to our collars
and tethered alongside Norge.  I am as surprised by this as Cato whose eyes
are wide with nervous apprehension.  Instinctively he knows something is
wrong and fears the worst.  Puzzled, I share his concern.  We are left to
stand silently and wonder.

   What are our Master's plans for us?

   It's early morning and the sun is still low in the East.  It is
mid-Summer and in recent days the temperatures have been hotter than usual
and the atmosphere humid and steamy; today promises to be their equal at
the very least - a real scorcher.  My concern is for Norge and the stress
that the heat places upon him as he is driven by our Master.

   Last night, in the solitude of our stall, I could sense that Norge was
more exhausted than usual but he dismissed my concerns and assured me he
was fine.  I wasn't convinced and persisted with my questions. 
Reluctantly, he told me how our Master had driven him relentlessly in the
yesterday's fierce heat.  He told of the Master's urgency to be home in
time for the scheduled punishments of Cato and Marv and of cause my own
unscheduled caning.  He went on to say how he'd been driven hard and of his
driver's constant use of the whip to make him run faster.  I listened with
sympathy and growing anger at this abuse of him.  Conveniently, I
overlooked the numerous occasions that I too had driven him to exhaustion.
How much my perceptions have changed?

   By the time our Master had arrived home, Norge was on the point of
collapse and it was only his willpower _ and the whip - that kept him
going. But thankfully, he had finally pulled into the courtyard where he
was allowed to rest and recover.  Master gave orders to the grooms to
sponge him down and to give him ample water to replace the body fluids lost
through his copious sweating.  Slowly his rasping breathing subsided and
the jelly-like quivering of his legs stilled until by the time the
punishments were over and our Master ready to leave once more, Norge was
back to normal.

   Which was just as well for the afternoon was to prove as strenuous as
the morning; he had an additional passenger to add to the weight he must
pull.  Our Mistress, Charlotte Maratier joined her grandson in the
passenger seat and Norge was driven at a more leisurely pace as he
delivered her from one exclusive boutique to another on her shopping spree.

   I fervently hope that today is much easier on Norge.

   Suddenly, I notice our Master walking in our direction with one of the
grooms.  As he approaches, Cato speaks.

   "Master?"

   This isn't an acknowledgement of our Master's presence.  Rather it is
Cato's plaintive question as to why this is happening to him.  I know Cato
well and I recognise in this one word all his pent-up fear and uncertainty.
But if he expected answers to his anxieties then he is to be disappointed.
Our Master pointedly ignores him.  No explanations are due to Cato for he
is a just a slave.

   Cato must be aware the preparations done to him presage another awful
eventuality.  His own past experiences in preparing slaves for delivery to
the auction-yard must tell him this is the fate that now awaits him.  I
recognise it and he surely must.  But my own fear overwhelms me.  I too
have been prepared and wait alongside Cato.  Is my Master about to sell me
too?

   Our Master wastes no time in leaving; he has much to do and this morning
promises to be a busy one.  I am fastened into place to run alongside Norge
while Cato is to run behind us fastened by a long neck tether to the back
of the cart.

   Brusquely, Norge is commanded by his driver to "Walk on!" and this is
re-enforced by a cruel cut of the whip to his ass; its loud thwack echoes
around the enclosed confines of the yard.  Obediently, he strains into his
harness and our journey begins.

   This is a road much travelled by me.  As a free man I had travelled its
wide, tree-lined length innumerable times and I have journeyed along it
once already as a slave.  That was three days ago when my new Master had
taken me back to my former home as a slave for the first time.  That trip
had been traumatic in the extreme but fortunately this one is to prove less
so.

   I am now almost inured to my enforced slave nakedness to such an extent
that I no longer care if people stare at me.  If they choose to do so, then
I console myself it is most likely to appreciate my slave body; to admire
my good looks and strong physique and to envy my Master's good fortune in
possessing such a fine slave.

   This thought both surprises and disturbs me.  It surprises me in that I
am able to think as a slave after only three days and it disturbs me that I
could conceivably take pleasure in my Master's ownership of my body.  Day
by day, I'm finding it easier to adapt to my new slavery.

   My thoughts are quickly dispelled by my Master's displeasure with me. 
As his whip stings my already sore ass he admonishes me.

   "SNAP OUT OF IT, RAFE!  Concentrate and keep your mind on staying in
step with Norge"

   Once more his whip sears itself into my hide and I'm told to,

   "PICK IT UP!"

   It's now Norge's turn to feel our Master's impatience and he responds to
the whip by running even faster.  From necessity, I match my speed to
Norge's and we are now running in step - left, right, left.  Somewhere
behind us Cato stumbles along at the end of his tether.

   It's still early and yet the sun beats down on us with such fierce
intensity that soon all three of us -Norge, Cato and I - are perspiring
profusely.  The sweat beads on our brows and trickles down into our eyes
causing us great discomfort.  My torso is bathed in perspiration and I feel
innumerable little rivulets of sweat meandering down my back and
channelling itself down through the canyon of my ass.

   But most of all I'm very conscious that I'm massively erect with my cock
pointing the way ahead as at the same time by balls swing pendulously
between my thighs.  A sideways glance in his direction shows that Norge is
similarly affected.  We are showing "proud" and attracting many admiring
glances from the passing public.

   Behind us Cato continues to stumble along; he is literally at the end of
his tether.  He is finding it hard to keep the pace demanded by our Master
and such are his fear and distress that his genitals have shrivelled into
miniscule obscurity.

   Soon our discomfort is all too obvious as we struggle to meet our
Master's impatient demands in the enervating heat of the day.  By
comparison, he is most comfortable; before leaving home, he had the
foresight to have a groom raise the canopy that now affords him the luxury
of shade and shelters him from the sun's rays.

   We have passed through the suburbs and are now on the outskirts of the
City's centre.  Our Master gives the order to slow our pace and then turns
us into a side street.  I know this street well for I have been here many
times.

   Suddenly I become worried and apprehensive.  For I know where this
street leads.  At its far end is an establishment I know only too well; it
is here that I'd first seen Norge and it was here I'd returned to buy him.
I shudder at the thought of that.

   We approach a grim, fortress like building and as we pass through into a
paved courtyard, I read the large sign above the gate declaring it to be

   "Schuster & Hanson, Dealers in Prime Slaves, Slaves sold by Private
Treaty or by Auction"

   My Master has brought Cato and me to this place.  Is he about to sell
us?

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

   You can access the Jean-Christophe stories in the archive at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories