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 THE AFTERMATH 2 `Legacy and Consequence' Chapter 2: Trial and Retribution

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

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

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

   Chapter 2: Trial and Retribution

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

   The tone of Dave Matheson's demand leaves me in no doubt.  I am to
suffer the indignity of a full body appraisal by Theodore Russell.

   After all, I know what is involved in a pre-sale examination.  Several
months ago, I'd subjected the former soldiers Grigor and his friend, Axel
to such inspections.  Already, I have suffered the indignity of two
thorough appraisals; the first was the initial one by the courts' officials
when I was enslaved and a second one under the expert hands of Dave
Matheson upon my arrival at his slave dealership.

   Three days ago, I'd been taken before the judge in the special court
which deals with bankrupts like me.  My appearance was a formality and the
conclusion a forgone conclusion.  Mine was the first case for the day and
it was scheduled for 10.00 AM.

   I'd been taken into custody immediately my creditors had foreclosed on
me and all my assets - the farm, my slaves, my livestock, my personal
effects and even my prized statue of the two wrestlers - were seized and
placed under the court's administration.

   I'd spent the interim between being taken into custody and my court
appearance in the city jail-house with other non-violent types such as
bankrupts, white collar fraudsters and petty criminals.  This morning many
of them share the display podiums with me.  Like me, they'd been tried,
found guilty and sentenced to slavery.  The law stipulates that all newly
enslaved criminals are to be sold at the first available slave auction
after their convictions.  Today is that day!

   As I said, my case was the first hearing for the day and I have to say
justice moved swiftly.  Punctually, at 9.50 AM, I'd been lead into the
courtroom dressed in the humiliating yellow and black uniform of the
unconvicted criminal and wearing heavy shackles around my wrists and
ankles.

   This gave me time to look timorously around the courtroom and I was
surprised to see many of my art-loving friends were present.  Had they come
to lend me moral support or to gloat over my downfall?  Instinctively, I
knew it was the latter.

   And prominent among them - in the very front row of the visitors'
gallery - was Obadiah Clements.

   I hadn't seen Obadiah since the night of my soiree when he'd waxed
lyrical over my two wrestlers.  And if it's possible, he seemed to have
gained weight since that night.  Certainly, in the interests of personal
comfort, he'd found it necessary to sit in the front row which allowed him
to spread his considerable bulk over an area that would normally seat two
to three.  Attending Obadiah was a body-slave who I instantly recognised as
my former slave, Toby.

   Our eyes locked and then shamefaced, I looked away from Toby, but not
before I glimpsed the deep hurt and sorrow in his eyes.  What had I done to
him?  What pain had I thoughtlessly caused to this man who'd served me
faithfully as a slave, a lover and a friend?

   Had his new master brought him into the courtroom to witness my very
public disgrace?  Was Toby there to gloat over my downfall?  If this was
so, I deserved both.

   But this wasn't the Toby I knew from old.  He looked fitter and leaner
than when I'd sold him.  His superb musculature was highlighted by the
highly perfumed slave oil that coated his glabrous nakedness and there
wasn't an ounce of fat on his smooth, hairless body.  Toby's fitness
shouldn't have surprised me.  I knew that Toby - as well as serving as one
of Obadiah's body slaves - was used by his master as a litter bearer.  And
I had seen Toby used in that capacity on two occasions as he struggled
under the intolerable burden of the heavy litter and its monstrous
occupant.

   Toby now wore an ornate torc of plaited gold around his neck rather than
the serviceable, plain iron collar that had marked my ownership of him and
he had identical ones fastened around his wrists and ankles.  Additionally,
he also wore smaller, matching bands around his genitals.  One band
isolated his balls causing them to hang low between his strong thighs while
the second band lewdly thrust his semi erect cock forward into prominent
display.

   Toby's dirty-blond hair was longer than I had allowed and was tied at
the nape of his neck with a blue ribbon.  Tousled ringlets framed his
handsome face and highlighted his deep sea-blue eyes, ruby-red lips and
pearl-white teeth.

   It seemed to me that his master had tried to `dandify' Toby which of
course reflected Obadiah's well-known ostentatious and lecherous tastes. 
But Toby's masculinity is such that it can't possibly be diminished by any
vulgar display.  Somehow, Toby's upright bearing rose above his master's
foolishness.

   Nevertheless, my heart skipped a beat as I glimpsed Toby.  He was the
manifestation of male beauty in all its perfection.  He was the
personification of what I had once owned and had capriciously caste aside
for the cold, lifeless figures of the two bronze wrestlers.

   I'd been attracted to the static, heroic proportions of the naked
wrestlers and overwhelmed by the artistry of their creator, Antonio Varo -
who, incidentally, was also present in the court.  Yet, as I glimpsed Toby
that day, he outshone them.  His body was far more heroic and it pulsed
with life.  The blood that coursed through his veins energised him and gave
his body warmth.  With every movement, no matter how slight, his muscles
rippled beneath the healthy glow of his lustrous skin.  His breathing gave
him a life force; the steady rise and fall of his chest and the
contractions of his stomach were evidence of that life.

   At the sight of Toby, my eyes brimmed with tears.  I've cried a lot in
the days leading up to and since my court appearance.  They were the
selfish tears of the self-pitying and caused by the fears of an uncertain
future.  But three mornings ago, the tears I shed in the courtroom weren't
for me.  They were tears of my deep remorse and I shed them for Toby and
the great wrong I'd done to him.

   If only I could turn back time and have the wisdom of hindsight?  How
different things would be.

   As I wept, I heard the sniggering of my erstwhile friends in the body of
the courtroom.  I was ashamed that I had ever considered them worthy of my
friendship.  Theirs' were the friendships that demanded much, took all and
gave nothing in return.

   Toby is only a slave - the lowest of the low in our class conscious
society - and yet he possesses the strength of character and a nobility of
spirit that my former friends could never aspire to.

   Foolishly, I'd preferred them and their crass shallowness to Toby's
genuine love.  Toby's was a love generously and unconditionally given and
without any expectation of reward.  In the silence of my guilty mind, I
asked - `Toby, what have I done to you?' If I could, I would kneel before
you in front of my former friends and beg for your forgiveness.

   I wished I could have taken Toby into my tight embrace and to feel his
hot breath on my cheek.  I ached to feel his strong arms encircling me and
to feel his strong body making contact with my own fear-trembling one.  I
longed to feel the red-heat of his hard erection seeking out my own and to
reach behind him and to lovingly caress the smooth rounded curves of his
ass.

   My thoughts were interrupted by the entrance of the presiding judge who
was to hear my case.  The spectators who filled the courtroom fell silent
as the court official commanded.

   "All rise for the Honourable Judge Michael J Prendergast!"

   I watched as Obadiah Clements tried vainly to heave himself from his
seat and to stand.  Toby turned to assist his Master and as he did so I saw
the angry red and blue stripes of the cane and the whip which covered his
noble shoulders and shapely ass.

   The sight of Toby's cruel suffering affected me deeply and my tears for
him flowed more readily.

   A silent sob strangled itself deep within my chest and my heart broke
for Toby and for the injustice I had done to him.

   As I stood before him, the judge balefully peered down at me from the
lofty heights of his bench.  I wasn't questioned - indeed I wasn't spoken
to.  The court clerk introduced me to His Honour as Andrew Terence
Trevorrow, bankrupt and the defendant in this case.

   In answers to his questions, the clerk told the judge that my debts were
as yet of an indeterminate amount but on the most conservative estimates
there were considerable and already in the many hundreds of thousands of
drachmae.  This solicited a shaking of the head and a `tut-tut' from his
honour through pursed lips.

   The judge had before him a sheaf of papers.  For the next few minutes he
shuffled through these pausing from time to time to look down at me over
the rimless spectacles he wore at the end of his nose and to shake his
head.

   I knew my fate was inevitable and that I would leave the courtroom as a
slave.  Nevertheless, I trembled from the emotion of the events taking
place around me.  The fact that I was the central player in these events
isolated me and I was overwhelmed with a sense utter desolation and deep
despair.

   My words can't adequately convey the dreadful loneliness of my situation
and unless one finds himself standing in my place they are without meaning.

   Altogether, my trial took less than twenty minutes.  I wasn't
represented by legal counsel and I wasn't asked to enter a plea.  I'd
already been adjudged guilty and my appearance in court was a mere
formality.  It was a necessary legal precursor to my enslavement.

   Judge Prendergast castigated me on my recklessness in living beyond my
means and for my reprehensible - no, he corrected that to criminal -
behaviour in borrowing money without adequate security.  In doing that, I
had exposed decent, law-abiding folk to my bad debts.  He reminded me that
the law took a dim view of such `white-collar' crimes and that the penalty
for my offence was mandatory; therefore he had no other option but to
sentence me to lifelong slavery.

   Then, he ordered the court's officers to take me into custody and
deliver me to the court's assessor for my enslavement papers to be made out
before I was taken to the forge for branding and collaring.

   The judge's words swirled around in the maelstrom of my raw emotions and
at the mention of the brand and collar what little courage I had deserted
me.  My resolve broke; I fell to my knees and begged for mercy.  Of course,
I knew none would be shown to me.  Nevertheless, that didn't stop me from
pleading.

   There remained just one ceremony for me to perform before I was led out
from the courtroom to begin my life of slavery.

   I was ordered to strip and to remove the prison garb I wore.  I'd
entered the court in the shameful yellow and black uniform of the criminal
and I was to leave it humiliated and slave naked.

   The shame I felt as I publicly stripped naked will stay with me through
the long years of my slavery.  Eventually, I will accept my nakedness as an
inevitable part of my life as a slave.  But the humiliation of stripping
naked for the first time in the crowded courtroom will never go away.

   As I stripped, I heard the sniggers and ribald comments of my former
friends.  But these no longer mattered to me.  Too late, I'd learned the
friendship which I'd sought from them and which I thought they'd extended
to me was a forlorn hope on my part.  That day, I learned that friendships
can be fickle and easily broken!

   Even Obadiah was stirred by the spectacle of me removing my clothing. 
He leaned forward and watching my every movement, he licked his lips with
lascivious interest.

   Then, I looked at Toby to see if he too was rejoicing in my very public
disgrace.  What I saw cut me to the quick.

   Toby's face showed his compassion and concern for me.  His eyes, misted
by his tears, met mine and I could see in them that he still loved me.  I
am unworthy of that love!

   That was three days ago and after leaving the courtroom; I was taken
down a long corridor to a door with a grey, frosted glass panel upon which
were inscribed in bold, black letters.

   Office of Slave Assessments and Registrations Registrar: Cyrus T
Humboldt

   I was the first to be enslaved that day and little time was wasted in
assessing me.

   The registrar, an overly officious, little man dressed in a white
uniform, was assisted by a youth he called Jason and a naked, unnamed slave
aged somewhere in his thirties.

   Under the fussy direction of the registrar, Jason and the slave
assistant measured, weighed and minutely examined me for any flaws or
visual body defects.  I was made to tauten and twist my body so that my
musculature was displayed to its full potential.  Each muscle group was
poked and prodded and commented on by the registrar with grudging praise.

   My balls were hefted and weighed in young Jason's cupped hand before he
stripped my foreskin back along the shaft of my cock so that he could
squeeze my piss-slit in a test of its cleanliness and good health.  Then,
it was the slave assistant's turn; he was ordered by the registrar to
`milk' me.

   I soon discovered this use of the word `milk' was a euphemism for
masturbation.

   Humiliatingly, I stood as the slave worked hard to bring me to a full
erection.  His job was made difficult for him by the fact that I was having
trouble in getting `hard'.  Traumatised by all that was happening to me, I
wasn't in the mood for any sexual activity.

   Despite the impatient exhortations of the registrar, my cock didn't
respond to the slave's frantic manipulations; wilfully it refused to yield
even the `proverbial inch.'

   Finally, his patience at an end, the registrar retrieved a short,
leather quirt from a bench and applied it to my ass taking care not to mark
my flesh where I was to be branded.  I'm not sure of how many strokes I
received - I was aware of five- but after that I didn't count.  He berated
me for my `lack of co-operation' and said.

   "Boy you're now a slave!  And a slave does as he is commanded.  I need
you to cum so that I can test your sperm count.  Who knows - your new
master might want to breed you.  He needs to know whether or not you are up
to the task.  Now relax and give my slave a sample of your semen."

   Somehow, I did manage to relax -perhaps it was a new slave's fear of the
whip that wrought the change in me - and incrementally I felt my cock
lengthen, thicken and grow harder as the slave assistant continued to
`fist' me.

   However, my power of endurance was sadly lacking and still not fully
erected, I soon shot my load into the glass container held over the head of
my cock.  I have to say this was among the quickest and least enjoyable of
the many ejaculations that I have experienced over the years.

   The slave held the jar before me and waited for my spasms to subside
before he handed my `sample' to the registrar for his assessment. 
Humiliated, I was left with a quickly wilting cock with a thin viscous
thread hanging from its opening.

   "HUMPH!  The slave has produced a goodly sample.  Let's see how many
swimmers there are?"

   The registrar's comment degraded me and then I realised that as a slave
I am to suffer such degradation every day for the remainder of my life. 
Humiliation and shame are the very hallmarks of a slave's existence.

   I watched as the registrar examined my semen under a powerful microscope
before inviting Jason to see how active my sperm were and I cringed as the
registrar said.

   "Well Jason, so far so good!  It would appear from the quantity and
quality of the slave's sperm that he could very well qualify as a potential
breeder.  Of course this doesn't guarantee his fertility but I'd be
surprised if he isn't.  Still, that's for his new owner to establish. 
However, the potential is there and I'll just enter that onto his
registration papers."

   The registrar moved with quick efficiency.  Already two other newly
enslaved criminals were brought from the courts into the room and made to
stand against the wall as they waited for my assessment to finish and their
own to begin.

   Quickly, I was ordered up onto a stainless steel bench and placed in an
`all fours position' whilst the registrar examined the internal health of
my ass and finger tested it as a potential source of pleasure to a future
master.  I passed with flying colours and turning to his young, trainee
assistant, the registrar declared.

   "The slave's ass is as clean as a whistle and as tight as a drum!"

   All that remained were the last examinations of my eyes, ears, nose,
mouth and teeth before I was given my inoculations against influenza,
pneumonia and tetanus.  I'd always taken great pride in the
pearly-whiteness and the evenness of my teeth and these too were favourably
commented on by the registrar who told his young assistant that my new
owner would be spared the expense of any big dental work for the
`foreseeable future.'

   The injections were swiftly - but not painlessly - given in my ass by an
inexperienced Jason under the registrar's expert tutelage.  Facing forward
I couldn't see Jason actually use the syringes but I certainly felt every
jab.  It would appear that no consideration is given to a slave.  Any pain
or discomfort caused to him is of absolutely no consequence.

   Yet, despite my yelps of outraged pain, I knew that infinitely worse
pain awaited me at the forge where, no doubt, the branding iron was heating
up.

   With a series of sharp, dismissive slaps on my ass and which echoed
hollowly around the room, the registrar commanded me to clamber down from
the inspection bench and into the clutches of two, burly overseers who half
dragged and half carried me out from the court-building across the enclosed
courtyard to the forge.

   I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster.  Vainly, I tried
to dig my toes and heels into the hard, unyielding surface of the yard but
they could find no purchase on the cobblestones.  Desperately, I wrestled
all the way but I was no match for the combined strength of my captors.  My
incoherent shouting - and vain pleas for mercy - reverberated around the
high brick walls and attracted the attention of the blacksmith who came out
of the forge to watch as the first of today's new slaves was delivered to
him for collaring and branding.

   The forge, where the newly condemned slaves are branded is a fearsome
place and as I was dragged kicking and screaming towards it I was reminded
of a scene from Dante's Inferno.  The front of the forge opened on to the
yard and I could see into its soot blackened interior and noted the array
of rusting chains and manacles which hung down from the smoke grimed
rafters.

   As I was dragged through the opening into the interior of the forge, I
saw two, young slave assistants busily working the bellows which fanned the
flickering, orange-yellow coals on the hearth back into life until they
glowed with angry, fire- red intensity.  And protruding ominously from the
bed of superheated coals was the handle of a branding iron.

   The air inside the forge was oppressively hot and stank of scorched
flesh, urine, excrement and vomit.  But most of all it reeked of raw, human
fear and unbearable suffering.

   The naked, bodies of both slave assistants were bathed in heat induced
perspiration.  Their sweat-soaked torsos reflected the ruddy glow of the
hearth and their glistening skin helped accentuate the erotic play of their
powerful chest and arm muscles as they pumped the bellows.

   "Is this the first for the day?  Bring him in and place him on his
knees. I've got his collar ready and the iron's heating up!"

   These words were spoken by the blacksmith, a brutish man who worked
stripped to the waist.  He wore a leather apron - obviously as a protection
against the sparks of both the anvil and the forge - but it did nothing to
conceal the simian like hirsuteness which covered this limbs and the front
and back of his body in long, coarse black hair.  His appearance was
intimidating and I quaked in fear as I was forced to my knees before him.

   Fearfully, I listened as he ordered one of his slave helpers to fetch a
collar from a bench somewhere in the gloomy recesses at the rear of the
forge.  I watched wide-eyed as the slave returned with the brand new iron
collar which was now to be fitted around my neck.

   But I had a momentary reprieve!  As the blacksmith took the collar from
the slave, he exploded in a paroxysm of anger.  Lashing out, he knocked the
slave to the floor and retrieving a leather strap - I didn't see from where
- he laid into the unhappy wretch furiously lashing his shoulders and back.
Obviously, the slave had fetched the wrong collar and he was paying a high
price for his inattention.  Unhappily, he had no other recourse than to
curl his body into a foetal position and wait until his master's anger was
satiated.

   As a master, I'd not been averse to whipping a slave if there'd been the
necessity to do so.  I had seen the whip used on my slaves and so I
shouldn't have been surprised at the scene being played out before me.  But
on my farm the whip had been used only as an incentive to keep a slave
focused on his labours and very rarely had Toby ever needed to resort to
flogging a slave as punishment.

   And this surely was a testament to Toby's excellent stewardship more so
than to my leniency as a master!

   But the blacksmith's thrashing of the young slave was extreme and its
brutality shocked me.  Perhaps, I was witnessing it through my `new slave's
awareness'.  Certainly, the awful realisation that I could now be subjected
to similar treatment fixed itself firmly in my mind.  I learned just how
precarious the life of a slave can be.  Punishment for a slave is never far
away and can come unexpectedly at any time purely on his capricious
master's whim.

   As the slave cried out in his pain, I trembled to think of what now
confronted me as a slave.

   Then, as quickly as it had begun, the slave's ordeal was over and much
chastened he scrambled to his feet and hurriedly returned with the correct
collar.  I'm not sure why the first collar proved unacceptable to the
blacksmith.  I guess he had his reasons and certainly it's not for a slave
to question those reasons.

   Next, the blacksmith turned his attention to me, and cuffing my ear, he
ordered me to bow my head while he placed the hinged collar around my neck.
How do I describe my feelings as the heavy, unyielding metal band encircled
my throat?  Even the unbearable heat of the forge couldn't take away the
chill I felt as the blacksmith snapped the collar shut or stop me from
shivering as he hammered the final spigot through both end lugs of the
collar.

   The collar's strangeness weighed heavily on my spirits and its
constriction reminded me that Toby had worn an identical collar since
boyhood.  I'd always seen Toby's collar as the natural order of things and
I can't ever recall - not even once - questioning its unfairness.  It was a
constant reminder to me that Toby was my slave and I'd just accepted its
presence as the appropriate mark of my ownership of him.

   I wondered how Toby had really felt about wearing the iron collar of
slavery.  Did he at any time share my new sense of shame at this symbol of
servitude which declared to the entire world that, as its wearer, I am now
a slave?

   But worse was to follow.  It was time for my body to be permanently
marked with the ignominious "S" for slave brand.

   Rough hands seized my shoulders, as acting on the blacksmith's command;
his two slaves hauled me to my feet.  The two, muscular slaves were
powerfully built and I was no match for their combined strength as they
dragged me unceremoniously across to the waiting table.  Vaguely, I heard
my howls of protest join with my vain pleading for mercy.

   Effortlessly, my handlers lifted me high to belly flop me onto the
branding-table with such force that I was temporarily winded.

   Sobbing wildly, my pleas for mercy grew louder even I knew they'd be
ignored.  My struggles were futile and I felt the tightening of the bonds
as they were fastened around my wrists and ankles securing me to the bench
and immobilising my body.  My body was stretched out tautly along the
length of the bench top and my movements were restricted to the nervous,
quivering of my muscles, the heaving of my chest as I greedily gulped for
air and the almost explosive beating of my heart.

   I turned my head toward the forge and my eyes widened with terror as I
saw the blacksmith pull the branding iron from its fiery cradle of hot
coals.  My body was convulsed by my incoherent sobbing as I caught sight of
the red glowing symbol for `slave' at the end of the long-handled brand. 
My vision and all my thoughts were centred on the branding iron.

   I waited with bated breath and tried to brace myself for what my
over-active brain told me would be unimaginable pain.  Futilely, I
struggled in my bonds as my naked ass heaved and my over-stretched muscles
bulged and flexed as I fought vainly against the ropes holding me firmly to
the branding-bench.

   "Hold him steady!

   In response to the blacksmith's instruction, I felt a firm hand pressing
down on my ass preventing me from wriggling or squirming and I knew my
branding was imminent.  I waited; in the dreadful anticipation of the hot
iron searing itself into my flesh and feeling the inevitable agonising pain
as it did so.  How long did I wait?

   I don't rightly know, but each second seemed an interminably long time.
My heart pounded, my laboured breathing quickened and I was lathered in a
fear induced sweat.  Then, I heard the sizzling and smelt the scorching of
my flesh as the blacksmith pressed his iron into my buttock.

   Momentarily, I felt nothing and then my nervous system exploded into
violent activity as it carried the signals of my agony to my brain.  I
heard my own high pitched shriek at the fiery eruption of this pain
throughout my body.  The intensity of my suffering was unbearable and my
loud sobbing only added to my misery.  And intruding into this suffering
was the thought that - `I am now a branded slave.'

   No time was lost in unfastening me from the table; but once on my feet,
my strength failed me and my knees sagged as I was half carried in the
powerful grip of the two slaves to the recuperating pen.

   There, exhausted and traumatised by my ordeal, I was roughly thrust
through the door and collapsed to the straw covered floor of the pen.  I
was left to lie semi-dazed to await my pick-up and delivery at the end of
the day to Dave Matheson's Slave Dealership.

   During the course of the day, I was joined by fifteen other new slaves
who like me were convicted of non-violent crimes and sentenced to the
mandatory `for the term of natural life' slavery.

   That was three days ago.  This morning they stand with me on the viewing
platform as the eager buyers examine us prior to our sale.

   Suddenly, I confronted by the slave-dealer, Dave Matheson and Theodore
Russell who is accompanied by his two sons and his estate manager.

   Dave Matheson walks behind me and viciously swipes his cane across my
ass.  I have received my first stripe for the day.  But it won't be the
last.  As I `dance a jig' on my podium, he imperiously orders me to.

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

   Trembling, I hasten to obey.



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

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