Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune" Chapter 37: "Time
for me to move on!"

   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 purely fictitious
and belong to the writer's imagination.  Please don't do any rewrites, make
alterations or add pictures.  "

   Chapter 37: "Time for me to move on!"

   My time spent on the water -wheel was inexorably long.  In reality, it
was only six weeks but each week was an eternity and each day a lifetime.

   At first, I doubted my ability to run the race and last the distance. 
And initially I did stumble and fall but somehow I always managed to pick
myself up and continue.  I suppose I have Sir Conn to thank for this; it
was hard to argue against the persuasiveness of his whip.  Although I do
have to say after the first day - and Claymore Jackson's admonition - his
whip lacked the ferocity I'd experienced before the estate manager's
intervention.

   For the first few days, my suffering was intense and the muscles of my
body screamed in protest at the unaccustomed demands made of them.  My
tortured lungs struggled to supply me with the extra oxygen needed for my
exertions and my heart pounded within my heaving chest.  The coursing of
the blood through my arteries and veins roared deafeningly in my ears
drowning out all other sounds except Sir Conn's exhortations.  Like some
bronze statue, my shoulders seemed to be frozen into position as I pushed
against the capstan's resistance and my legs dragged behind me like leaden
weights.

   At the end of each day, I managed to drag myself back to the slave
barracks where Sir Conn fed and watered me before locking me away in my
cage for the night.  Within a few minutes, I was `dead to the world'
oblivious to all around me and to the nocturnal activities of my fellow
slaves.  I neither noticed nor cared; my only concern was to rest and
rebuild my strength for the next day.

   But inevitably, I did adapt to the water-wheel.  My body attuned itself
to its new labours and each day became just that much easier than the
previous day.  Incrementally, the relentless pushing of the capstan changed
my body.  Any residual fat was stripped away and my muscles hardened and
grew more clearly defined.  My lungs adapted to the unnatural demands made
upon them and their capacity grew until I was breathing deeply and evenly.
The rhythm of my heartbeats settled into a regular metronomic pattern and
the flowing of my blood no longer roared in my ears.

   My labours became easier but my sense of isolation and boredom remained.
My thoughts were mostly with Norge and at any given moment, I wondered
about him.  I missed his presence in my life and I yearned to be back with
him in our stall at our Master's town house.

   And my appearance also altered.  With the trimming of my body fat, my
muscular definition became more pronounced.  My shoulders broadened and
strengthened.  My labours and my deep, regular breathing added inches to my
chest as correspondingly other inches were whittled from my waist.  The
muscles and sinews of my thighs strengthened as my legs turned into
powerful pistons and the globes of my ass became slimmer, more rounded and
more prominent.

   Under the intensity of sun's rays, my skin darkened and the whiteness of
my midriff disappeared so that I had an even, overall tan that would later
perfectly match Norge's.  To be truthful, I now felt better than I had at
any other time in my life.  Despite my loathing of my grandfather's
water-wheel and the demeaning nature of my labours, it was obvious that
hard work agreed with me.

   But there were also less savoury changes.  My body reverted to its
original state.  On Master's orders, my head had been cropped and my body
shaved smooth.  This was mandatory for all of my former household slaves
and Master had continued with this practice after his ascension to the
Barrois estates and fortunes.  The night of my enslavement my hair had been
cropped and the next morning my body hair removed.

   Keeping a slave's body `smooth' is high maintenance and time consuming
and not practical among La Forêt's large herd of common work slaves. 
Accordingly they retain their body hair and beards and I was no exception.
My hair regrew into an unruly, tangled mess and my beard's stubble darkened
my chin.  And I was no longer recognisable as the former aristocratic
Lucien Barrois.

   Apart from the occasional thunderstorm and an all too infrequent hosing
down by Sir Conn, I was never washed.  The dusty conditions of my work
station and my continual sweating caked my body in a reddish patina of dust
that served to protect me from the worst of the sun's rays and, to a lesser
extent, from the biting, stinging insects that were the constant companions
of my misery.  But more humiliating was my animal like smell and Sir Conn
would sometimes remind me of this with a cutting comment.

   "PHEW!  Dumb-ass, you stink to high heaven!"

   Paradoxically, as I became more malodorous to those around me, I became
less so to myself.  My sense of smell became desensitised to such an extent
that I no longer noticed my own stench.

   My time on the wheel coincided with mid- summer when the heat was at its
most ferocious and at first I struggled to cope with it.  The open aspect
of the wheel meant that I was fully exposed to the summer heat and there
wasn't any shade to give me relief.  As I plodded on my ceaseless rounds, I
would watch with envy as Sir Conn relaxed in the shade of his cabana with a
cool drink.

   And as the day's heat grew in intensity, Sir Conn would strip out his
clothing and cool off in the water channel whilst I continued to work.

   As best as I could, I would watch as he swam and splashed around all the
time taunting me with his comments.

   "Hey white boy!  This feels so good.  Don't cha wish you could join me?"

   The question may have been rhetorical but my answer -only ever expressed
in the solitude of my mind - was an emphatic "YES".

   But despite my inability to join him in his water frolics, I was able to
watch Sir Conn at play and this did provide me with a guilty distraction
from my labours.  Gradually, I came to look forward with eager anticipation
to my overseer stripping off his clothes and disporting in the nude.

   I have always been an admirer of the naked, male human body but until
now, my interest had always been centred on my former white slaves and
friends.  I'd never thought about the black man in the same way as I did
with them.  Indeed, until Sir Conn's morning use of me in the seclusion of
the shrubbery; I had never seen a naked black man.  Sir Conn is the first
and only one.

   He walked unashamedly naked in front of me; unconsciously he'd stretch
his body and flex his muscles in a way that always brought me to a full and
rampant arousal.  Did he ever notice the effect he had upon me?  I don't
know if he was aware of my interest and he never showed that he was.  In
fact, he disregarded me completely.

   I thought back over the years and recalled that not once had I ever seen
any of La Forêt's black overseers out of uniform.  Never had I seen a black
overseer remove his shirt to seek relief from the summer's heat; until that
is Sir Conn.  Why was this I wondered and it gave me something to think
about as I worked.

   I asked myself did their reluctance to appear undressed in front of a
white man - who they now consider as inferior to them - have anything to do
with their unhappy history.  Does it hark back to the days when the white
man had forced their ancestors to work as naked slaves?  Somehow this
possibility made sense to me.

   But if this is so, why does Sir Conn appear naked before me.  After all,
I am white man.  Then, with startling clarity, it occurs to me that I may
be white skinned but I am no longer a man.  I am a slave and Sir Conn would
have no more qualms about being naked in my presence than he would in front
of a family dog or pet.  Sir Conn doesn't see me as a man.  He sees me
merely as a slave and a beast-of-burden.

   As Sir Conn preened in front of me, I was able to fully appreciate a
black man's perfection for the first time; Sir Conn is in every aspect a
"Black Adonis".  I liked what I saw and I lusted after him.  But how do I
describe him in a way that does him justice?

   As I guiltily watched Sir Conn cavorting in the water, I was captivated
at the way the water beaded on the glistening warm mahogany of his skin and
which served to highlight the perfection of his body.  I was entranced with
him.  I looked on as he disappeared beneath the water's surface only to
re-appear a few moments later; exploding back into my sight like some
mythological god rising from the ocean's depths.  I couldn't take my eyes
away from his magnificent body and I was fascinated at the way the water
trickled in meandering rivulets down over the contours and plains of his
torso.

   And I wondered - is Sir Conn aware of my interest in him?  Certainly,
there were times when he'd chide me because the wheel's pace slowed or I
wasn't concentrating on my duties and he'd warn me to.

   "Keep your mind on your job, dumb-ass!  You don't wanna make me come out
of the water and whip your ass."

   But was it intuition or wishful thinking on my part that made me think
Sir Conn was secretly pleased with my admiration of him.

   I recall one day in particular.  I watched as Sir Conn used his powerful
arms on the channel's edge to lever himself bodily out of the water.  The
stress this placed on his body highlighted his every muscle and sinew and
threw into sharp relief the outline of his body.  He paused momentarily and
my eyes were drawn to his ass.  As Lucien Barrois, I'd always been
attracted to a slave's shapely, well- turned ass and I considered myself a
connoisseur of what constituted the perfect one.  But that day, I saw an
ass that surpassed all others.

   I know it's fashionable to refer to a curvaceous ass as `bubble-butted'.
However, it wasn't a term that Lucien ever used lightly.  But, when I
glimpsed Sir Conn's ass, those words took on a new meaning.  The rounded
contours of his beautifully proportioned buttocks lived up to that
description.

   Then, Sir Conn burst from the water in an explosion of youthful energy
and stood still momentarily by the side of the water channel; fleetingly, I
was reminded of an ancient Greek statue of a naked athlete sculpted out of
black marble.  Then doglike, he vigorously shook the excess water from his
body and walked over to me.

   What followed took me by surprise.

   Sir Conn ordered me to stop and when both the wheel and I were
stationary, he released my wrists from their shackles and ordered me to
kneel before him.  I sensed what was to follow and excitedly I prepared
myself.  He moved closer to me until his groin was just inches from my
face. By then I was well acquainted with the cock that now rested just
inches from my mouth and I had already serviced it that morning on my way
to begin my daily labours.  Now it appeared I was to service it for a
second time.

   I know from my previous encounters that Sir Conn is well endowed and my
mouth and throat can testify to that.  However, on those other occasions,
much of Sir Conn was hidden from my view by his bunched up under clothing.
On this occasion, he stood before me in all his naked glory and all was
revealed to me.  Nothing was hidden from my sight!

   I had heard that black men are prodigiously endowed but I'd always
treated that with scepticism and viewed it as an urban myth.  But what
confronted me that day defied description.

   As a former slave owner, I'd always required my slaves to be well
endowed.  Indeed, it was one of the first areas of a slave that I checked
out during an inspection of any slave I considered buying.  No matter how
handsome or muscular the slave- if he lacked `size' - then I'd pass him
over and continue my search.  Consequently, I have lost count of the number
of slaves I have examined.  Let's say it would number in the hundreds and I
had seen cocks ranging in size from the miniscule to the impressively
large. I thought I had seen them all.

   But even the most impressive of these paled into insignificance when
compared to Sir Conn's gargantuan member.  Its thick meatiness pointed
directly at me and idiotically my only thought was how much darker his
penis appeared against the lighter hue of his lower belly.  Distracted, my
eyes roamed down to the twin orbs suspended between his muscular thighs
like two oversized, purple-black plums.

   Sir Conn held his burgeoning erection in his right fist whilst his
fingers added support by encircling the expanding girth of his penis. 
Transfixed, I watched it pulsating beat and I stared hypnotically at the
flared mushroom of his glans where, already there was a pearly white bead
of his excitement glistening at the piss-slit.

   With his free hand, Sir Conn guided my head in towards his groin and, at
the same time, he tapped the side of my mouth with his quickly hardening
cock.  As he did so, he ordered me to.

   "Open your mouth, boy!  Open it up wide and take my cock!"

   Eagerly I took his penis into my mouth and with each vigorous thrust of
his hips, I hungrily suckled him and savoured his sweet taste until
finally, to the sound of his exultant cry, I thirstily swallowed his
essence as he pumped it into me.

   Sir Conn used my ears to hold my head close to him as he allowed his
tumescence to slowly wilt in my mouth.  But I wasn't about to give up; I
wanted more from the young overseer.  I knelt at his feet and I was lost in
the ecstasy of the moment and it was a moment I didn't want to end. 
Frantically, I began to suck harder and I used my tongue to massage and
coerce his cock back to into a full erection until once more it filled my
mouth and stuffed my throat.  Sir Conn was pleased with my efforts. 
Fondly, he ruffled my hair as he cooed encouragements to me to continue.

   I'm not sure for how long I knelt at Sir Conn's feet and worshiped his
cock.  Time seemed to stand still and I was oblivious to everything else
around me.  All my senses were centred on my young, `de facto' master and
my only thought was to please him.

   But all good things have to end and so it was with our interlude.  Sir
Conn had given into his impulses and taken me away from my labours.  It was
time to return me to the wheel before we were discovered.  I had given no
thought to the consequences of that and had I done so I would have realised
that we'd both be punished.  Sir Conn would have been verbally reprimanded;
I on the other hand, would have been severely caned.  It is one of the
iniquities of slavery that the slave must always bear the major share of
the blame and the punishment even if he is blameless.

   I stood docilely as he refastened me to the spoke and with ox-like
obedience; I lunged forward to once more resume my labours as his whip cut
across my shoulders.  But somehow, his whip lacked its usual fiery sting.

   Over succeeding days, this scene was repeated a number of times.  Did
this interaction bond us or bring us closer to each other.  The answer
would have to be an unequivocal - no it didn't.  The differences between us
were to vast for that to ever happen.  Sir Conn was free whereas I was a
slave.  But more relevant - at least from his point of view - was the fact
that he was black and I was white.  To his way of thinking, he was
fulfilling his role as a black superior and I was fulfilling mine as a
white slave.  It was a case of "never the twain shall meet."

   But for my part, I had a growing affection for this young overseer.  In
ways that I could never have foreseen when Claymore Jackson and I
interviewed him for his apprenticeship, Sir Conn has become an integral
part of my life.  Though, I wish it was under different circumstances to
the ones I find myself in.

   As I have already said - my time on my grandfather's water-wheel moved
with inexorable slowness and the emotional and physical changes in me were
most dramatic.

   Physically, my body altered and my musculature became more pronounced.
Through my labours, and my copious sweating, I shed all unnecessary body
fat.  I became leaner and harder of muscle.  My breathing became deeper and
my lung capacity increased accordingly.  The muscles and sinews of my legs
and thighs toughened into powerhouses of strength.

   With the absence of mirrors, I sensed the gradual changes in my body
rather than watch them take place.  I recalled the mirrored walls of the
gymnasiums at my former residences where I'd made it compulsory for my
household slaves to exercise each day.  And how, whenever time permitted, I
would watch them as they `worked-out'.  I enjoyed looking on as they moved
from one exercise station to the next.  My slaves were conscious of my
presence and tried hard to please me by training hard.  They knew what was
expected of them and they posed their bodies and flexed their muscles for
my predilection.  And with mirrors on every wall and the ceiling, their
images were reflected back from every angle adding to the delightful
spectacle of so much naked flesh.

   As I watched my slaves exercise, I reflected on how much we owed the
ancient Greek civilisation.  As with the water-wheel, they had bequeathed
the gymnasium to us.  Their pre-occupation with the perfection of the
naked, male body had seen them establish the gymnasium as a bastion of male
strength and beauty.  And how appropriate it was that like those Greek
athletes, my slaves trained `gymnos' or naked.

   But it wasn't only my body that underwent change.  My time on the wheel
also changed me emotionally.  The nature of my work could be described as
soul-destroying but more insidious was the effect it had on my mind. 
Slowly, day by day, hour by hour and minute by minute, my mind emptied
itself to all else but my labours.  Fate had made me a slave and I now
accepted that as my destiny.  My role was to serve my Master in whatever
capacity he chose.  And that was my only purpose for existing.  No longer
burdened by the thought of ever regaining my freedom, I now applied myself
solely to my labours.

   Dutifully, I applied my mind to the task at hand and I expended all my
energy in keeping the wheel turning at the required speed.  In fact, I
became so good at my assigned task that Sir Conn very rarely needed to
apply his whip to me.

   Claymore Jackson monitored my development each day.  Frequently, he'd
have me pause whilst he physically assessed my progress and I always seemed
to please him.  He was fulsome in his praise of Sir Conn's control of me
and gave him the credit for the changes taking place in me.

   Less frequent were the visits from my Master, I suppose this was
understandable given that he needed to be in the city as he assumed control
over all that had once belonged to me.

   But when he did visit, he too would have me stop the wheel while he
examined me and discussed my progress with Claymore and Sir Conn.  He too
seemed pleased.  Most markedly was the change in his attitude towards me.
His mood mellowed and no longer did he taunt me or seek to humiliate me. 
Mostly, he ignored me and it seemed to me that he now saw me as just
another of his many slaves.

   But the same couldn't be said of my other young Master, Etienne. 
Fortunately, his visits were infrequent and took place only at weekends.  I
was unaware that he was a pupil at the exclusive boy's school that I had
attended.  And I was unaware that the name of Lucien Barrois had been
expunged from all the school's records and the name removed from all honour
boards and sporting shields and trophies.  My "crime" was so shocking that
at the school, as in all other places, the name of Lucien Barrois had
ceased to exist.

   Perhaps it was a reflection of his previous poor background and of his
inability to adjust to his father's newly acquired wealth that made Etienne
into what he is.  Spoiled by both his father and his great-grandmother
Charlotte, he had become impossibly arrogant and he was fast developing a
cruelty that manifested itself in his treatment of me and, as I would
discover later, the slaves who served in his father's households.  Very
quickly, those wretched slaves grew to fear Master Etienne more than his
father.  Master Etienne would order a caning on the slightest pretext and
if none presented itself then he would manufacture one.

   Later, I will hear all this from Norge who will tell me that the swish
of the cane dominates our Master's home and that the asses of the house
slaves are seldom without stripes.

   And I experienced Etienne's spitefulness at first hand.  Fortunately, he
only visited me on rare occasions.  But I have reason to remember his
visits.

   On his first visit on what I assumed was a weekend day - although I had
no way of knowing for certain as the days remained nameless for a slave -
he came armed with a cane.  And he used it to cane my ass, back and
shoulders mercilessly.  At first, his blows were little more than an
irritant.  But gradually, as his confidence grew and the power of his
strokes became more powerful, my suffering intensified.

   He had remembered back to the afternoon of my arrival at La Forêt to
when Sir Conn had christened me "dumb-ass" and that was the name he now
used for me.  Of course, I was a captive to his torment.  I couldn't run
from him and I had only one way to move and that was forward.  He'd follow
behind me, gleefully laughing in his high pitched, girlish voice as he
flailed my body with his cane.

   Tempted as I was to speak, I nevertheless remained silent.  Any protest
from me would be interpreted as defiance and Sir Conn would be forced to
intervene with his whip.  And I feared Sir Conn's whip more than I feared
Master Etienne's cane.

   Inevitably, Master Etienne grew tired of his game of "giddy-up dumb-ass"
and wandered away to find new things of interest.  But my respite was all
too brief.  All too soon, he returned.

   Suddenly, and without warning, my body became the target for clods of
earth thrown at me by my young Master.  He persisted with this for several
minutes before he ordered me to.

   "Whoa, dumb-ass!"

   I obeyed and waited patiently as Master Etienne scooped up handful of
mud from the channel's edge and used it to paint a large "X marks the spot"
on my buttocks.  When this was done, he gave me the order to, "giddy-up"
and my ass now became the moving target for his missiles.

   I'm not sure for how long I endured this.  The clods were mostly of soft
earth that dispersed harmlessly on making contact with my body.  There was
very little physical pain in this; the real pain was in my humiliation and
shame.  And this was exacerbated when Sir Conn joined in with youthful
exuberance.

   At first their aim was "way off target" but gradually it improved until
it was "spot on".  And I recalled the days when I, together with Miles,
Jack, and Daniel had used the young, field slaves as our targets. 
Ashamedly, I recall the young, teenaged slave from long ago, back in my own
boyhood, who'd dared to protest at my similar treatment of him.  I recalled
how he'd been whipped to his knees in submission.  So what was different to
my treatment of that young slave and the treatment I received at the hands
of Master Etienne and Sir Conn.?  The answer was obvious even to me.  There
was absolutely no difference.

   What is it that makes a free boy want to treat a slave so thoughtlessly?
I supposed it is inherent in the nature of most boys to throw missiles and
to find a suitable target on which to hone their pitching skills.  And of
course, a slave's ass makes a tempting target.  For a young lad, there is a
feeling of being very daring in taking aim at an adult slave who he knows
can't protest.  I recall there was always that feeling when I'd done so. 
So, in that sense, I suppose Master Etienne is just being a boy.

   I was fortunate that the day's heat intensified and sapped the energy of
my young tormentors.  They soon lost interest in me and retreated to the
welcome shade of the cabana where they quenched the thirst they'd built up
in their harassment of me.

   While they rested, I was left alone to continue my labours without
hindrance.

   Finally, my time on the water-wheel came to an end, One day, quite
unexpectedly; I was visited by Master and Claymore Jackson.

   The two men stood and watched intently as I worked the capstan.  I knew
they were scrutinising me and so I pushed just a little harder to please
them.  I wasn't really listening to their conversation but I heard enough
to know they were discussing me and my progress.  I heard them speaking
glowingly at how well I was responding to the hard physical labour and of
the changes that had been wrought in my body.

   As I continued on my rounds, their conversation reminded me of what I
was - a slave who possessed nothing.  I glanced at my Master and I was
surprised to see he was wearing clothes that had once belonged to me.  This
surprised me.  I thought he would have discarded all of my belongings and
replaced them with his own.

   But I'm not to know that my Master's previous poverty had instilled in
him a frugality that had also been nurtured by his grandmother, Charlotte
Maratier.  It wasn't meanness on their part; rather it had been born out of
their dire necessity to conserve their meagre resources.  Consequently, Guy
Maratier hated waste and, despite his newly acquired wealth, he hadn't been
able to rid himself of his caution.

   My former wardrobe had been both extensive and expensive.  I'd always
enjoyed looking good and I'd had a flair for dressing smartly.  My style
would best be described as `understated' but it had always attracted
favourable comment.  I was also not aware that as yet, my Master hadn't
developed his own style - indeed he lacked the confidence and savoir faire
of Lucien Barrois.  Self-conscious of this deficiency, he'd retained my
wardrobe for his use.  In doing so, he paid me a high compliment.  And I
had no further need of them; I was a slave condemned to perpetual
nakedness.

   Seeing my Master dressed in my clothing served to remind me of all I had
lost.  I now possessed nothing.  Neither freedom nor time; both belonged to
him.  All I had is the gift of my Master.  I was dependent on him for the
food I ate, the water I drank and the straw I slept on.  The collar I wore
around my neck and the cinch encircling my genitals had been placed there
on his orders to remind me that I am owned property and that he is my
Master.

   Even the pebble in my mouth wasn't mine.  As I sucked on it to alleviate
my thirst I recall it had been placed there that morning by Sir Conn.

   "Phew!  He smells like an animal.  He stinks to high heaven.  Can we
have him cleaned up before we look at him?"

   My Master posed the question and in response, Claymore asked Sir Conn to
unchain me and take me to the water channel where I was instructed to "jump
in" and wash away the accumulated filth on my body.  My sun parched body
relished those few brief moments in the water.  Several times, I
enthusiastically submerged myself below the channel's surface and
luxuriated in its cooling balm.  And who could blame me.  I was determined
to make the most of this unexpected break in the routine of my day and the
feel of the water on my dry skin was almost sensuous.  But my delight was
short lived.  My splashing evoked an angry response from Claymore.

   "Boy, quit wasting time!  Wash yourself down and haul your ass out here
where your Master can examine you.  MOVE!"

   Chastened, I used my hands to `sponge' myself clean and then climbed out
of the water and stood at display while my Master gave me a cursory
inspection.  However, Claymore subjected me to a far more exhaustive and
rigorous physical examination.  He pummelled my chest and belly, he felt
the hardness of my arm and leg muscles and squeezed my buttocks before
ordering me to breathe deeply and hold my breath as he tested the capacity
of my lungs.  He had me do this some four or five times until he was
satisfied.

   Finally, he turned to Master and said.

   "Well Guy!  There's been a marked improvement.  As I suggested it would;
the wheel has worked wonders on him.  The boy is now ready to begin the
next phase of his training.  We'll start him on his new duties tomorrow."

   With those words, I knew this was my last day working on the
water-wheel. There was a great sense of relief in knowing this but also a
deep apprehension wondering about the next phase of my training.  What
would it entail?

   I shall find out tomorrow morning.  But somehow I knew it would be more
onerous than my labours of the past six weeks.



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

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