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 THE AFTERMATH 2 `LEGACY AND CONSEQUENCE' Chapter 1: `As you sow, so shall
you reap!'

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

   Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): January, 2012 An archive of my
stories can be found at
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

   The ideas and characters 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."

   Note: My first, completed story `The Aftermath' (Or What Follows Next)
was written in 2009.
The characters in that story still appeal to me - this is especially the
case with Toby and Andy - and I have decided to revisit them and to

discover how they have adjusted to their new lives.

   This won't be a long series; more a periodic story about each of the
main characters.

   Chapter 1: "As ye sow, so shall ye reap!"

   Never were words more apt to describe my situation for truly I am
reaping the bitter harvest of what I have sown.

   Today I stand naked and trembling in chains on the display platform of
Dave Matheson's slave market.  I am a court mandated bankrupt; today, I'm
to be sold to the highest bidder and the proceeds from my sale are to go in
some small measure to repaying my debts to my many creditors.

   It seems incongruous that just a few short weeks ago Dave Matheson had
welcomed me into his establishment with open arms as I delivered four of my
primest slaves to him for an expedited sale.  Then all seemed right with my
world.  I owned a prosperous broad acre farm, bequeathed to me by my father
free of all debt and encumbrances.  Never was a son so blessed by his
father's excellent stewardship.  And never has a son so recklessly
squandered a father's generous inheritance.

   Today as I wait to be sold into slavery, I am reminded of the biblical
`prodigal son.'

   How has this situation come about?  There are many words I could use to
describe what I have done.  Some that come readily to my mind are gross
stupidity, overweening vanity, crassness, ingratitude and selfishness.  But
worse than any of these is the disloyalty I displayed towards my loving
slave and farm steward, Toby.

   I am guilty of all these and much more and I am sure other people
ascribe many more faults to me.  I know my downfall has been much talked
about among my erstwhile friends in the arts world.  How they must snigger
and laugh at my naivety and gaucheness.

   Not too long ago, I had it all.  A prosperous farm and a fine herd of
slaves to work in its fertile fields and a loyal steward who only ever had
my best interests at heart.  Yet I have lost everything and I have been
reduced to base slavery.  By today's end, I will be owned property and the
slave of some as yet unknown master.

   The bleakest of futures now confronts me.  At thirty years, I am young
enough and I possess the bodily strength to will attract the interest of
many buyers.  Today there are fifty of us to be sold and Dave Matheson has
placed me early in the sale.  At my feet, painted in bright yellow, is the
order of my sale, Lot 8.  And humiliatingly, I also have that number
inscribed on the right flank of my ass and the right pectoral just above my
nipple.

   There are still ten minutes before we are officially made available to
the public for their scrutiny, but already the early buyers hover over the
podium like carrion birds circling some dying prey.  And even as I watch, I
see Dave Matheson, accompanied by three men and a youth, striding
purposefully in my direction.  I recognise one of the men as the losing
bidder for Toby at the recent auction when I'd sold my four slaves.  I
remember his name is Theodore Russell of Redgrove Plantation and
slave-breeding farm.

   Does he have an interest in me and for what purpose?  I know he saw Toby
as a breeding buck and that he was piqued when Obadiah Clements had outbid
him.  Is that how Theodore Russell sees me; as a potential stallion for his
stud.  The prospect of this is too awful to contemplate and I am appalled.
But I am powerless to prevent this if, at the end of the auction, I am
knocked down to Theodore Russell.

   Just three days ago the courts tried me and found me guilty of
bankruptcy; a serious crime in our profit obsessed society.  There is just
one sentence in our law statutes for people like me and that is mandatory
enslavement for life.  And justice moved swiftly!

   I'd been taken from the courtroom, processed into slavery and delivered
to the forge for branding and collaring.  There, the letter S for slave had
been forever seared into my left flank where the angry red, festering wound
throbs with the intensity of the pain I feel throughout my body.  Then
released from the branding-table, I'd been forced to my knees and placed in
the heavy metal slave collar I am doomed to wear for the remainder of my
days.  Its weight bows my head in shame and burdens my soul with sorrow and
self-pity.

   What has brought me to this sorry state?  Why am I here as a court
mandated slave waiting to be sold to the highest bidder?

   My story is one of stupidity and false pride.  It is a story of
self-centredness and self-absorption But most of all it is a story of my
disloyalty to Toby, my slave who gave his all to me.  For nigh on twenty
years, I selfishly took from Toby all of his love and devotion and in the
final analysis, I rejected these for the crassness of a bronze statue of
two naked wrestlers sensually entwined in combat.

   I'd chosen the inanimate over the living.  I'd preferred the cold metal
of the wrestlers to Toby's warm, inviting flesh.  In my foolish vanity and
vain-glorious desire to impress my erstwhile art- loving, city friends, I'd
chosen an empty bronze shell rather than Toby's living, breathing body
within which beat a heart overflowing with goodness and love.

   Foolishly, I'd chosen the lifeless form of a statue over the living body
of one who'd loved and served me unconditionally for most of his life - and
mine.

   Capriciously, I had abandoned Toby and sent him to the slave-market
where he'd been sold to the lecherous Obadiah Clements.  As the
auctioneer's hammer fell announcing that this was so, I realised - too late
- the enormity of the injustice I had done to Toby.

   Vainly, I tried to console myself with Toby's replacement.  That night,
I tried to find solace with my new slave Grigor and I failed dismally.  Try
as hard as I might, Toby's image was always before me and I was tormented
by the thought of him at the mercy of his grotesque, new master.  That
night, I wept openly for Toby and my arms ached to hold him.

   This proved a welcome distraction for my new slave Grigor - even his
considerable charms failed to arouse me or to lift my spirits.  Not that he
tried; he retreated to the far side of my bed as far as it was possible to
move away from me.  He'd entered my bed fearing the worst and I sensed his
relief at this sudden unexpected reprieve.

   Poor Grigor!  How he'd excited me when I'd first caught sight of him in
the slave-pens.  I had lusted after him and saw him as a worthy replacement
for Toby.  And I had used this to assuage my nagging conscience over my
abandonment of my loving companion slave and loyal steward.

   However, contrary to my expectations, Grigor wasn't the panacea I
sought. If anything, quite the opposite is true.  Every time I looked at
Grigor I was reminded of Toby and those few times when I did order Grigor
into my bed were less than successful.  And as I thrust into Grigor, it was
Toby's ass that was uppermost in my mind.  In contrast to Toby's eagerness
to please me, Grigor was proving sullen and unresponsive to my half-hearted
advances.  Eventually, it became too painful to me to have Grigor attempt
to fill in for Toby and so I abandoned all pretence and banished him from
the house to labour in the fields.

   Now of course, Grigor faces an uncertain future in line with all my
former slaves.  Seized as bankrupt stock, the court has appointed Dave
Matheson to dispose of them at special slave auctions as part of the
realisation of all my property and assets to help defray some of my debts
to my creditors.

   I am guilty of all these things - and much more - and I can blame no
one, other than myself, for my current predicament.  I didn't choose to be
a slave; indeed I wish with every fibre of my being that this wasn't so. 
If only I could turn back the clock.  With the benefit of hindsight my life
would be lived differently.

   But I have made my bed and for better or worse I must now accept the
consequences of my foolish actions.  As I commiserate with myself, I think
back to the day when Toby stood on this same platform.  I now have a sense
of the loss and rejection he'd have felt together with the fear of an
unknown master and an uncertain future.

   Today, I share those emotions and I am afraid; terribly afraid.  Yet
there is a sense of poetic justice in what is happening to me.  Toby's
recent vicissitudes - resulting from my unworthy actions - have become my
current nightmare.  I deserve my fate.  And yet, I wish it wasn't so.

   For now, I stand as a naked slave and I wallow in a deep trough of
self-pity.

   My journey to the auction-block is one that I'd rather not make.  But it
is inevitable and was made so the day I foolishly sold Toby.

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

   Dave Matheson and Theodore Russell stop in front of me.  Theodore - or
Theo to his close associates - is accompanied by his two sons Ben and Joel
his odious overseer, Silas Hacker.

   Shamefaced and fearful, I can't look them in the eye and lower my gaze
to the ground.  I have never meet Theodore in person and in fact the only
other time I have seen him was the day when I'd sold Toby.  Then, I had
watched as Theodore, locked in a fierce bidding war, lost out to Obadiah
Clements who now owns Toby.

   I have seen Toby twice since that day.  Once I'd watched as Toby,
together with seven other slaves, struggled to carry Obadiah's litter aloft
on their shoulders through the crowded city streets.  Given the
ostentatious ornateness of the litter and the grotesque bulk of its
reclining occupant this proved to be a herculean task for the eight,
sweating, straining slaves.

   As they passed, I averted my eyes; my sense of guilt didn't allow me to
look at Toby.  But not before I noticed the criss-cross pattern of angry
red and blue welts on Toby's ass and shoulders which matched those of the
other seven unfortunate wretches.  Obviously, like them, he'd been sorely
abused by his new Master.

   The next time I saw Toby was on the night of my soiree when I introduced
the statues of the two wrestlers to the city's art elite and glitterati.

   Obadiah, as is his manner, staged the grand entrance.  All eight of his
litter-bearers were in their customary nude state but their bodies had been
coated from head to toe in gold body paint and they wore laurel wreaths on
their heads.  Obadiah was outrageously dressed in a caftan and turban
-resplendent with peacock feathers - after the manner of a dissolute,
oriental potentate.

   Such behaviour is expected of Obadiah by his fawning sycophants in the
arts community and his arrival was greeted by loud applause.  As the host,
I was on hand to greet him - after all he was to give the introductory
speech before the unveiling of my statues - and I hurried forward to warmly
welcome him to my home.

   I waited as the eight, exhausted slaves slowly lowered the heavy litter
to the ground to allow its occupant to exit gracefully.  Although, given
his bulk, it's doubtful if any of Obadiah's movements could ever be
considered graceful.

   Unfortunately, one of the slaves stumbled, interrupting the fluidity of
the movement and causing the litter to lurch to one side.  I don't know
which slave it was; under their anonymous body paint they all looked the
same to me and I'm not sure if Toby was the guilty culprit.  But it didn't
matter if he was innocent or guilty - in their Master's eyes all eight
slaves were equally guilty of publicly embarrassing him - and all eight
paid the price for his anger.

   As he tumbled out of the litter, Obadiah retrieved a strap that he
obviously carried for just such an occasion and after soundly berating
them, he ordered all eight slaves to put their noses to the ground and to
raise their asses heavenward.  Then with energy quite out of keeping with
his generally poor condition, he moved from one to the other delivering
five, stinging cuts of the strap to each upturned ass.  Even then his anger
wasn't assuaged; as the slaves cringed beneath his self-righteous
indignation he promised that tomorrow each slave would receive ten strokes
of the whip for their carelessness.

   Of course, Obadiah loves playing to an appreciative audience.  With much
`tut-tutting' and shaking of their heads his art-loving devotees urged him
to punish the eight slaves for their negligence.  Not that Obadiah needed
any further urging.  I knew of his rumoured, formidable reputation as a
hard task-master and that night I saw strong evidence of it.

   Obadiah's endurance and the obvious pleasure he received from publicly
chastising his slaves surprised me.  Altogether, he delivered forty strokes
of his strap to the eight slaves - a formidable task even for a fitter and
younger man - I assumed it was his relish for the task that gave him the
added strength to see it through to its unhappy - for the slaves -
conclusion.

   But when I looked at Obadiah, I was suddenly concerned for his
wellbeing; I thought he was at the point of collapse.  His face was
suffused an apoplexy red and the overtaxed arteries in his neck pulsed in
erratic timing with his labouring heartbeats.

   His exertions had left him a wheezing, heaving mound of corpulent flesh
and my concern was that he'd not be able to deliver his introductory speech
to my guests.  However, my fears were groundless.  By the time I called
upon him to speak, he'd regained his composure - helped enormously by the
quaffing of copious amounts of the expensive French wines I bought
especially for the occasion - and he entertained my guests with his usual
flair and wit.

   The night went well and I basked in the fulsome praise of my art-loving
friends.  Despite my initial misgivings about Obadiah's treatment of my
former slave, I soon put Toby out of my mind.  After all, Toby is now
another man's slave and how his owner treats him isn't my concern.  It is
an unwritten rule among slave-owners that they never criticise another on
the treatment of his slaves.

   My soiree was an outstanding success and the complimentary praise of the
city's art community went to my head.  I'd spared no expense in
entertaining them and I lavished them with an overabundance of expensive
food and wine.  That night, I didn't give thought to how I was to pay for
all this -that could wait.

   Everything had been charged against my next harvest - and I found the
caterers and wine-merchants were very persuasive in convincing me to serve
only the best and most expensive of their wares to my guests.  And to
assist me in buying their goods, they gave me an unlimited line of credit
against my ripening crops.  Foolishly, I'd not seen the pitfalls involved
in doing this.  However, at one stage I guiltily thought of Toby and how
he'd disapprove of my spendthrift ways.

   I'd chosen a `wrestling' theme for the night and I'd instructed my new
steward, Toby's replacement, to dig a deep pit and to cover its base with a
mixture of dry, red earth and oil.  I read this is a common form of
wrestling on - I think - the Indian subcontinent and the pictures I'd seen
had aroused me with their sheer eroticism.  I'd personally inspected my
slave herd to choose the brawniest and most muscular from among them to
serve as wrestlers on the night.

   The sensuous sight of these naked wrestlers, their bodies generously
coated with oil, slipping and striving to gain the upper hand over their
opponents in the slithery environment of the pit proved most entertaining
and was well received by my appreciative guests.

   And to further impress them with my `sophistication', at enormous
expense, I'd hired some pleasure slaves from the Patroklos Club to serve as
waiters and to entertain my guests in a series of salacious tableaux that
showcased their sexual prowess.  These slaves approached their duties with
great enthusiasm and proved enormously popular.  Their `no holds barred and
anything goes' demonstrations were greeted with long and sustained
applause.

   Dave Matheson had told me that one of my four slaves had been bought by
the owner of the club for use as a pleasure slave and it was through his
negotiations that I'd arranged to hire these slaves.  I was taken aback
when I'd received the owner's quote for the hiring of his slaves but Dave
told me that the charge was more than reasonable when you considered the
loss of income to the owner by the slaves being absent from the Patroklos
Club for the night.  In my eagerness to impress and despite my misgivings,
I'd acquiesced to Dave's convincing arguments.

   Of course, I'd felt duty bound to invite Dave to my soiree even though I
knew my socially conscious guests would frown upon his presence.  He was
after all only a slave-trader!

   Dave accepted my invitation - I had hoped he wouldn't.  He'd over
imbibed and his coarse manners, loud talking and raucous laughter did
embarrass me in front of my more refined guests.  Dave was very much a
`fish out of water.'

   Now he stands before me with Theodore Russell and I am very much his
social inferior.

   He walks behind me and viciously swipes his cane across my ass adding
another stripe to those I have already received.  Imperiously, he orders me
to.

   "Stand at full display, boy!  Mr Russell wants to inspect you."

   Trembling, I hasten to obey.

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

   The Jean-Christophe stories can be accessed by joining the archive group
at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories