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 THE AFTERMATH 2 LEGACY AND CONSEQUENCE CHAPTER 4 "ANDY IS SOLD"

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

   Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) Read all 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 his permission.  Please respect the integrity of
the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures."

   Chapter 4: Andy is sold!

   "Come on!  Come on!  Move it!  Move up!"

   I respond to the overseer's shouted command and the vicious prodding of
his cane into my ribcage by shuffling forward until my body is pressed
close against the slave in front of me.  Our bodies groove together; my
chest and belly are hard against his back and the contours of his ass fit
neatly into my groin until my cock's rigidity slips snugly into his
ass-crack.

   The slaves behind me are urged forward until I feel the sweaty nakedness
of the slave directly behind me pressing hard up against my own nude body.

   There is only one way out of the race and that is to be taken up the
ramp and over to the auction block.

   Time stands still for those of us who wait nervously to take our place
on the auction block.  But as best as I can, I estimate it takes
approximately ten minutes from the time the auctioneer' assistants lead the
next hapless slave to be sold out of the race until the banging of the
auctioneer's gavel and his utterance of that one, fateful word - "SOLD!"

   All of us share a common fear of being sold.  Each of us wants
desperately to delay being lead out before the buyers and made to display
our bodies for their evaluation.

   Our reactions to being lead out for auction are varied and no doubt they
are influenced by our nervousness and the fear of our new, uncertain
futures.  When their time comes to go to the block, some slaves are stoic
and simply allow themselves to be lead out like lambs to the slaughter. 
Obviously, they have abandoned all hope and accepted the inevitability of
their fates.

   Others react angrily and resist by struggling against our captors.  But
theirs is an uneven battle and one they can't win.  They pay a high price
for their resistance under the canes and the straps of their handlers.

   Others are sullen and simply stand their ground and refuse to move. 
They too suffer under the overseers' determined discipline.

   Then there are those - the newly enslaved - who desperately grab hold of
the nearest support - the ramp's railings or an upright post - and hold on
with grim determination amid their loud protests.

   "No!  I don't want to be sold.  I'm not a slave.  Please don't do this
to me.  Please it's all a terrible mistake.  Please...  please, let me go!
Oh, pleaseeee......  don't do this!"

   Their heartrending pleas are callously ignored by our handlers as they
pry the protesting slave's fingers loose from their safe hold and wrestle
him bodily up the ramp, across the selling platform and lift him high onto
the block.

   The sight of a trembling, sobbing slave being dragged out be sold should
touch even the hardest heart.  But here in the slave-market there is no
pity or compassion.  Those who sit on the buyers' benches have come to buy!
To them a slave is a commodity - no more or no less!

   Indeed, the commotion caused by a protesting slave lightens the mood of
the occasion and his struggles are the cause of much laughter and jeering.
Wrapped in the horrors of his situation, it's doubtful that the slave hears
their cruel jibes and catcalls; mercifully, their ribald comments don't
register in his consciousness.

   The auctioneer, well aware that these diversions lighten the mood of the
buyers - and perhaps even loosen their purse strings - indulgently waits as
the slave is settled down by his assistants.  Once the slave's protests and
pleas have been quietened by the cane and the strap, he stands docilely -
all hope now gone - as the auctioneer extolls the merits of his trembling,
sob-wracked body to a receptive audience of eager buyers.

   Within which category of slave will I fall?  Will I walk tamely over to
the auction block or will I struggle all the way?  As I await my turn, I
don't know.  I suppose like those slaves, I'll react to the immediacy of
the moment.

   And I don't have long to wait!  There are just two slaves ahead of me.
One slave stands on the block and attracts the spirited bidding of the
buyers whilst the other stands trembling in front of me.

   I recognise him from the courts where I'd been enslaved.  We'd shared
the indignity of being evaluated by the court's slave assessor before being
taken to the forge for our collaring and branding.

   He is a young slave - perhaps no more that eighteen - and I believe he
was sentenced to life time servitude for the most trivial of offences;
shoplifting of a candy bar worth just a few paltry copper coins.

   But our penal system recognises the ever increasing demands for slaves
for labouring and domestic purposes and it has redefined its code several
times in recent years to meet those demands.  More and more minor crimes
now carry the mandatory sentence of lifetime servitude.

   From a distance, we hear the incomprehensible shouting of the buyers'
bids and the auctioneer's unintelligible repartee as he responds to the
bidding process.  Suddenly, there is a lull during which the auctioneer
asks.

   "Gentlemen, are you all done?  Is there any advance on the last bid? 
Are you all done?  Are you quite sure...............?"

   Then he continues.

   "Going once .........  going twice .....  For the third and final
call.......  Are you all done?"

   The silence is shattered by the loud banging of the auctioneer's gavel
and his loud exclamation.

   "SOLD!  Lot six is sold to Mr Kemp.  You have bought well Mr Kemp.  Your
purchase is a fine slave and I congratulate you on your ownership of him!"

   His announcement is met with a round of applause.

   Suddenly, the young slave becomes aware that he is next.  I hear his low
moaning which soon gives way to crying.

   I feel his violent trembling pass through our close bodily contact and I
hear the splattering sound of his fear-induced pissing as we wait.  I can
sympathise with his plight; my own bladder feels it is full to bursting
despite the fact that we'd not been given any water to drink since last
night.

   As he is approached by two slave handlers, the hapless young slave
pushes back against me in a reflexive effort at retreat.  However, the
sheer volume of the bodies pressing from behind stops him.  One handler
holds the race gate open as his companion enters with a length of chain
which he clicks onto the slave's collar.

   I watch in horror; aware that I am next.  I hear the chinking sound of
the chain as it is attached to the collar and I watch as the handler yanks
on the leash to start the panicky slave on his short journey to the auction
block.  This serves as catalyst and the slave begins a heartrending
pleading to be set free.

   "NO!  Please ...  please ...  oh please!  I'm so sorry ...  please!  Let
me go home!  I want my Mom.  I want my Dad!  Please let me go!"

   Despite the precariousness of my own situation, I am affected by the
slave's pleading.  His youthful vulnerability tugs at my heartstrings - and
my conscience.  Suddenly, I feel remorse for my treatment of my former
slaves.  I recall the three young slaves I'd sold along with Toby to
finance the purchase of Antonio Varo's statue of the naked wrestlers.  How
I have come to hate that statue!  Whether or not it is the only cause of my
downfall is open to debate.  But certainly it was the catalyst for my
misfortune.  Because of it, I'd sold my beloved slave and able farm
steward, Toby thereby sowing the seeds of my own destruction.  Oh Toby! 
Forgive me for what I did to you.

   But it isn't only Toby who affects me now.  As I look at the young slave
walking on the end of a leash up the ramp and onto the selling platform and
as I listen to his crying and his tearful pleas, I remember those three
young slaves I'd sold with Toby.  They were approximately the same age as
this young slave and yet in my self-absorption and obsessive desire to own
that cursed statue, I'd not been affected by their sale.  I'd acquiesced to
them being sold for the highest price possible without regard as to their
futures.

   Later, I learned the two blond cousins were bought by two spinsters, the
elderly Middleton sisters to work in their gardens and to serve as their
ponies.  I'd been unaffected by their plight.  I'd not considered their
suffering as they were driven under the reins of the vinegary, older sister
Miss Harriet who delighted in constantly applying her whip to their
harnessed, unprotected bodies.  I'd not known that the younger sister, Miss
Harriet salivated as her sister lashed them and added her angry red stripes
to their shapely, curvaceous asses.

   Nor had I ever considered the fate of the third slave now known as "327"
and who works as a high-class, male whore in the upmarket "Patroklos Club".
I was unaware of his pain and humiliation as he opened up his beautiful,
young body to the deviant demands of the lecherous and the depraved among
our city's leading, male population.

   But even if I'd known these things, they wouldn't have affected me.  In
my self-centred world, slaves - and the lives they were forced to live by
their masters - were unimportant and of no consequence.

   That is until now.  As I watch the young slave walk away to an uncertain
future, my heart goes out to him.  In all probability he'll end up forced
to live a similar existence to those of my former slaves.

   For he is a handsome slave whose youth radiates his innocence and he is
completely without guile.  His lithe, athletic body is a delight to the eye
of the connoisseur of the youthful, male form and my past experience as a
buyer tells me that this young slave will attract the lascivious attention
of those men looking to buy a youthful, pleasure slave.

   I now stand at the head of the race and my own sale is just minutes
away. Suddenly, I am convulsed by my panic induced trembling and my bladder
empties itself out of fearful anticipation of what is ahead of me.

   Vaguely, I am aware of the young slave's sale.  I hear the buyers'
shouted requests to pose his body so that they can appreciate it all the
more.  I hear the swish of the cane striking naked flesh and I hear the
slave's sharp yelps of pain in response.  I hear the good natured exchanges
between the auctioneer and the buyers as he extols the slave's salient
features.

   In my mind's eye, I can see the slave standing on the block with his
head bowed in shame as his tears stain his face.  I know this to be so for
it is a scene I have witnessed numerous times in my previous incarnation as
a slave-owner who bought and sold in this grim place.

   Then, the auctioneer calls an end to the friendly banter and invites
serious bids from any interested buyers.  I listen as these decide the
young slave's fate.  Much depends on these bids for they will determine the
conditions of his slavery.

   Will he be sold as a pleasure slave, a farm worker or as a domestic
slave?  All of these are possibilities.  Fortunately for him he is too
lightly built to sell as a pony - although with hard work and proper diet
that could change.  But from what I have seen of today's offering, there
are other slaves better suited to this task.  My former slave and Toby's
replacement, Grigor stands somewhere behind me and he is eminently suited
to be used in harness.

   I doubt very much that the slave will see service in the living hell of
the quarries or the mines.  Certainly he is young enough and his youth
offers a canny buyer the promise of many productive years of labour -
together with the all-important profit that can be wrung out him.  But he
lacks the bulk that owners of these terrible places demand of a slave -
they would consider him `too soft' for heavy duty.  They would see his
fragility and despair as obstacles which would shorten his life and they
would pass him over for a slave who is better equipped to withstand the
rigours of the quarries or the mines.

   In that the young slave is indeed fortunate.  Perhaps the Fates are
smiling upon him today?

   Then, I hear the auctioneer call for any final bids and when none are
offered, I hear the grim announcement.

   "SOLD!  Lot seven is sold to Mr Theodore Russell of Redgrove Plantation.
Congratulations, Mr Russell.  Is he another work slave for your
plantation?"

   "No Sir!  I've bought him to serve my son, Ben as a body slave when he
returns to College.  The lad looks docile, he's non-violent and should he
easy to train and handle."

   "Indeed, Mr Russell!  The slave is admirably suited to such duties.  I
wish your son every success with his new slave."

   I feel pity that the slave's life as a free person has been cruelly
curtailed by such a trivial misdemeanour.  But the fact remains that he is
now a slave and his fate could be infinitely worse.  I'm pleased to know
he's going to a good `home' although I suspect he will suffer much pain and
hardship as his new, young Master trains him into his ways.

   My earlier encounter with young Ben Russell, as he examined me,
suggested to me that he'll be a hard, demanding taskmaster.

   But my thoughts for the young slave are cut short as I see the two
handlers coming for me.

   From the selling podium above my head, I hear the announcement.

   "If you're ready gentlemen, then we'll proceed to Lot eight."

   I am just moments away from my destiny.

   I begin to quake as the gate to the race is held open and I'm approached
by the second handler who clips his chain to my collar.  He pulls on the
chain to start me walking - well to shuffle forward more than walking as
the chains around my ankles do limit my movements.  Momentarily, I stand my
ground but another quick yank of the chain and the admonishment to "Come on
boy!  Move along, the buyers are waiting for you." see me move out of the
race and start up the ramp.

   Deliberately, I make the decision not to resist or to protest.  Common
sense suggests the futility of doing either.  After all, other slaves
before me had struggled and protested and what had they achieved.  They'd
be caned and strapped to bring them into line and ultimately they'd been
sold.  My fate is inevitable and any protest is pointless.

   Rather, I decide to retain a small measure of my dignity and to
co-operate fully with the handlers and the auctioneer.  I know I will have
an audience watching as I am sold and many of my erstwhile, art-loving
friends are sitting on the tiers in the buyers' gallery.  No doubt some are
hoping to see me misbehave and chastised.  I won't give them the
satisfaction of ridiculing me.

   But then within the silence of my thoughts, I ask - what dignity is
there for a naked and shackled slave as he is led by his collar and leash
to the auction block and sold?  None!

   As I step onto the platform, my body is blasted by the furnace-like heat
of the sun and I am temporarily blinded by its intense glare.  I can't see
but I hear the loud murmurs of approval from the buyers' gallery announcing
my arrival.  It would appear that everyone knows me and they have been
waiting for me.

   Unsure of where to go - my eyes haven't yet adjusted - I pause.  One of
my handlers applies a heavy, leather strap to my ass and there is a ripple
of laughter as I cry out in pain and embarrassment.  My leash is roughly
jerked and I just follow blindly in the direction in which I am led.

   It is just a few short steps to the auction block and I am ordered to.

   "Step up, boy!"

   Fortunately, my eyes have adjusted to the light and as I look to step up
onto the block I catch a fleeting glimpse of it.  It is square shaped and
made from a solid piece of timber taken from the trunk of an oak tree.

   How long has this block been in service?  I don't know.  It looks
ancient and its top is deeply grooved from the friction of the feet of the
countless slaves who have stood upon it and fidgeted nervously as they were
sold.  Their sweat and their body oil - and occasionally their urine - have
all combined to darken the block - and their bare feet have added a shining
patina to its top.

   As I step up onto the block and settle my feet into its concaved
surface, I'm overwhelmed by a sense of despair.  I am surrounded by people;
the buyers, the auctioneer and his helpers.  And yet I am alone.  I stand
at the centre of their attention and all eyes are focused on me and yet I
have this feeling of utter desolation and loneliness.

   I am discovering there is no lonelier spot in the entire world for a
slave than to stand on the auction block!

   Unsympathetically, a ripple of laughter floats down from the buyers'
area as a cane cuts across my naked buttocks and I am ordered by a handler
to.

   "Lower your eyes to the floor boy!"

   My short journey from the race to the auction block had been a
deflationary one which nonetheless has left me with an incipient erection.
With my eyes downcast, I watch as the handler `fluffs' out my cock and
balls into a prominent display for the buyers to admire and judge. 
Embarrassingly, his attention gives me a quick and rigid erection.  My
penis now juts out from my body at a slight upwards angle and elevates and
lowers itself in time with the nervous beating of my heart and my rapid
breathing.

   "Gentlemen, you have before you Lot eight.  This slave is a new,
court-mandated slave and he is being offered for genuine sale in compliance
with the court's verdict.  This slave has been found guilty of bankruptcy
and .........."

   "We're all aware of his crime." Someone from the buyers' gallery
interjects.  "Can we please save time and skip the preamble and move onto
bidding for him."

   "Is that the wish of you all?"

   There's a note of annoyance in the auctioneer's question; nevertheless
he responds to the buyers' positive replies of "Yes!" "Let's get on with
it" and "We all know what he's done - who doesn't?"

   "Very well then gentlemen, I'll be brief."

   "Good, then get on with it!"

   Are the buyers that keen to bid for me?

   "The slave is aged thirty and until recently he was a prominent member
of our community.  You're all aware of his crime so there's no need for me
to expand on that other than to say it was of a non-violent nature. 
Gentlemen, I leave it to you to make your own judgements about his
appearance and fitness.  However, I will just say that he makes a fine
candidate for enslavement.  Look at his handsome features and impressive
physique.  This slave has much to offer to the discerning owner."

   Mercifully, my mind shuts down and I'm only vaguely aware of the
auctioneer's words.  I hear him talking, but don't fully comprehend what he
is saying.  I hear the comments, the laughter and the good-natured banter
coming from the buyers' stand as I am forced to pose and display my nude
body for their benefit.

   I take my direction from a handler who stands behind me always at the
alert and ready to use his cane should I be too slow to respond to a
command or a request from the buyers.

   Humiliatingly, I'm aware that the overseer is posing me into positions
that display me to best advantage.  I feel him ease my foreskin back along
the shaft of my cock before he lewdly strokes my erection and I become
aware that he has turned me with my back to the buyers and forced me to
bend at the waist.  I feel his hands pulling my ass-cheeks apart exposing
me to the buyers' full scrutiny.  I no longer care as I hear the crude
laughter and ribald comments that the sight of my ass-hole provokes.

   Then I'm ordered to stand and face the front; I listen in dismay as a
buyer in the front row speaks to the auctioneer.

   "Auctioneer, I'd like to see the slave stroke his cock rather than have
the overseer do it.  And can he do it slowly please?"

   As I slowly stroke my penis, I struggle to stop myself from ejaculating.
My body tenses, my breathing becomes laboured and without realising it, my
hips are thrusting back and forth in time with my hand movements. 
Oblivious to the buyers, I enjoy the pleasurable sensations sweeping
through my body.  Then suddenly, as I'm on the point of my eruption, my
hand is pulled away from my cock and an overseer applies his strap to my
ass.

   My yelp of surprised pain at the unexpectedness of this delights the
buyers who laugh at my frustration.

   "Are you satisfied, Sir?" The auctioneer asks.  "If so, then let's move
on."

   Tears sting my eyes and I begin to shake uncontrollably as I realise the
full horror of my situation.  As I tremble, the shackles around my wrists
and ankles rattle noisily.

   My mind is full of thoughts of Toby.  Just a few short months ago, he'd
stood on this same block and suffered these same indignities.  I see the
poetic justice of my present situation and there is also a small measure of
comfort in knowing that I now suffer as I'd made Toby suffer.  So much has
happened since that day and none of it is for the better.  If only I could
go back in time to that fateful day how different things would be today.

   But wishful thinking doesn't change my situation and I recoil in horror
as the auctioneer is asked.

   "Auctioneer, can we have the slave step down from the block and have him
on his hands and knees with his legs spread wide and ass facing out towards
us?  I want to see how low his balls hang."

   I recognise the mincing words as belonging to Obadiah Clements and the
realisation that he is showing an interest in me fills me with dread.  But
I am powerless to resist as the handler helps me to step down from the
block and places me in position.

   I'm acutely aware that I am now obscenely displayed and as if to
emphasise this point the slave-handler forces my legs as far apart as the
chains around my ankles allow.  But he's still not finished with me.  Next
he places a foot on the nape of my neck and forces my face to the platform
thus elevating my ass even higher.

   My position is most uncomfortable; I feel the strain on my sphincter as
it is stretched open and I feel its rapid, pulsating beat keeping time with
my laboured breathing.  I feel my balls hanging low between my widely
spread thighs and I'm aware the handler uses the toe of his boot to set
them swinging for Obadiah's assessment.

   "How tight is his ass?"

   Obadiah's question humiliates me even further and my body is suffused by
the hot, red flush of my shame.

   "I would think the slave is very tight-assed." The auctioneer's wry
reply is greeted by ribald laughter from the buyers.  "You only need to
look at him to see that he is sound.  But let's check shall we?"

   I flinch as the overseer cruelly thrusts his index finger through my
resisting sphincter into the inner recesses of my ass and comments loudly.

   "He's very tight indeed.  I don't think you'll have any complaints in
that area."

   "Are you satisfied, Mr Clements?" The auctioneer asks.

   "I need to ask the question, auctioneer." Obadiah Clements retorts.  "If
I'm to bid for him I need to know that he's not slack-assed."

   How can I describe the utter humiliation I feel as my `tightness' is
discussed in such a disparaging manner?  It goes without saying that as a
free man, I'd not been used in that way.  Always, I was the Master and I
did the fucking.  And I'd never been fucked.  But now that I am a slave
that appalling fate possibly awaits me.  Certainly Obadiah's question about
my soundness shows his `special' interest in me.  What a dreadful prospect!


   The auctioneer waits patiently allowing Obadiah Clements and the other
buyers ample time to study my nether regions.  But time is moving on and
there are many slaves still to be sold before the close of business and he
asks.

   "Gentlemen, if you have finished let's move on!"

   The overseer toes my ass and I feel his strap as it cuts across my
ass-cheeks.

   "Right then, boy!  Step back up onto the block and face the buyers.  And
lower your eyes to the floor."

   Despite my ankle chains, I hasten to obey as quickly as I can.

   "Gentlemen, Lot eight is now ready for sale.  I invite your bids for
this fine slave.  Who among will be the fortunate owner of this prime boy.
Come gentlemen, don't be shy.  Loosen your purse strings and give me your
bids."

   His invitation unleashes a flurry of bidding from those wishing to buy
me.

   As a free man I'd always enjoyed bidding for a slave in this market. 
There is something very empowering in seeking to own another human, body
and soul.  Perhaps it was the latent gambler in me but I'd always been
excited by the `thrill of the chase' as I bid against the other buyers. 
Slave auctions are cut and thrust affairs; of bid and counter-bid.  Most of
all, they are games of brinkmanship where you go to the limits of your
financial resources and of wisely knowing when to call an end to your
bidding.

   There is that middle ground - and most bidders fall into this category -
where, in the bidding process, you recognise it would be imprudent for you
to continue and so you quit the field leaving it to the more serious
runners.  But ultimately, the race ends in one of two ways.

   You either experience the exhilaration of winning or taste the bitter
disappointment of defeat.

   And as a buyer, I'd known both victory and loss.

   How can I adequately describe the triumphant pleasure of my bid being
the winning one and listening as the auctioneer declared my victory?

   "SOLD!  The slave has been sold to Mr Trevorrow.  I congratulate you, Mr
Trevorrow."

   For me there was always great satisfaction in successfully bidding for a
slave.  To own another human being was empowering.  Unless you have
experienced that my words would have little meaning for you.

   But then I had suffered the disappointment of being just `pipped at the
post' by another buyer.  I stood to one side watching dejectedly as others
crowded around him pumping his hand and slapping his back in good-natured
congratulations.

   I'd always likened the slave-market to a gambling-place and the bidding
process to a game of chance for both the slave-owner and the slave.  And in
today's unhappy lottery, I am one of the prizes.

   This afternoon, it is it I who stands on the auction-block as the buyers
do battle with one another for the right to own me.

   Dazed, I listen to the rapid exchanges between the auctioneer and the
buyers; their words swirl incomprehensibly around me.  I neither recognise
who is bidding for me nor hear the amounts of their bids.

   But judging from the loud, almost frenzied shouting, I am a popular lot
and there are many vying to own me.  Inevitably, by a process of
elimination, the numbers bidding for me are whittled down as my value
increases incrementally with each succeeding bid.

   Somewhere, in the flurry of activity I hear the auctioneer ask.

   "Are you bidding, Mr Russell?"

   And I hear Theodore Russell's answer.

   "No, I'm done!  The slave's a bit too rich for my purse."

   I heave a sigh of relief!  At least I'll be spared the rigorous life of
a plantation slave and I don't face the appalling prospect of being mated
as one of Theodore Russell's breeding bucks at Redgrove.

   The bidding continues with diminishing intensity and it now becomes
easier for me to see who is bidding.  There are three buyers competing
against one another; two I don't recognise.  However, the third is well
known to me; he is Obadiah Clements.  My heart sinks and I find myself
fervently beseeching whatever powers control a slave's destiny to protect
me by ensuring that I'm not sold to him.  That prospect is too awful to
think about!  And yet, I am aware I'd callously condemned Toby to this very
fate.

   My earnest entreaties go unanswered and within a few minutes Obadiah's
rivals drop out of the bidding war and leave the field at his final bid.

   The sharp crack of the auctioneer's gavel brings an end to the bidding
and his words sear themselves into my brain.

   "Gentlemen, Lot eight has been sold to Mr Obadiah Clements.  May I
congratulate you Mr Clements?  Once again you have purchased well.  Can I
ask what duties await your new slave?"

   "I thank you, auctioneer!" My new Master simpers.  "My new slave will
serve in my household as a body servant and he'll be paired with my last
purchase from several months back as a carrier of my new sedan chair."

   "Ah yes, Mr Clements!" The auctioneer replies.  "We've all heard talk of
your unusual new conveyance and we eagerly await its appearance on the
streets.  Good luck to you Sir!"

   My time on the auction-block is at an end.  It is now time for me to
step down and make room for Lot nine.

   An overseer approaches me and once more my wrists are fastened behind my
back and a leash attached to my collar.  I'm led away to be placed in a
holding pen while my new Master finalises his purchase of me before
claiming me as his property.

   As I am led away, I see my Master Is surrounded by a group of fawning
well-wishers.  I recognise them as the former friends from my halcyon days
as a self-absorbed, self-proclaimed connoisseur of the arts who'd flown too
high and had spectacularly crashed back to earth.

   Standing apart from them is the solitary figure of Toby.  How noble and
upright he looks in his naked magnificence.

   Ironically, we have been re-united but at what cost?  Once more we are
together; but not as the Master and slave we once were.  Now we are on an
equal footing as the slaves of a lecherous, degenerate and cruel Master.

   Our eyes meet and I see his sadness reflected in their depths.  Is this
the sadness he feels for the fate I'd so cruelly abandoned him to?  Or dare
I hope that some small measure of it is for me and for what I've lost.

   Then as I am led past him, a ghost of a smile flickers across his
handsome face.  I see forgiveness in his smile and I am overwhelmed by his
magnanimous gesture of reconciliation.

   I am undeserving of his forgiveness and yet it pierces the gloom of my
despondency.

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

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