Date: Fri, 25 Mar 2011 01:16:42 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "Changed Circumstances" Chapter 16  Gay Male/Authoritarian

CHANGED CIRCUMSTANCES
A Sequel to "A Reversal of Fortune"
Chapter 16: A First Meeting and First Impressions

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

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris)
"To see all my stories go to groups.yahoo.com/group/SlaveNow"

Chapter 16: A First Meeting and First Impressions

My body aches and my stressed muscles cry out for relief but thankfully my hard
labour for the day has ceased. The day is drawing to a close and under Cato's
keen scrutiny, I and the other three slaves chosen to serve as tonight's waiters
in the dining-room are being made ready. Cato told me that my Master has
especially requested my presence in the dining-room; I am to meet my Master's
grandmother, Charlotte Maratier for the first time.

Cato has just put me through a brief "crash course" on how I am to behave in the
presence of my Mistress. He's instructed me on the various slave positions that
I must adopt before her, the principal one being one of "obeisance". This
requires me to fall to my knees whenever she enters the room, spread my legs
apart, place my forehead to the floor and press the palms of my hands to the
floor on either side of my head. I am to remain silent and motionless until she
gives me an instruction to break position. If she orders me to stand, then I'm
to stand at "display", bow my head in humility and wait to be spoken to. I am
NOT to initiate any conversation with her and I must answer all questions she
puts to me simply and truthfully without any embellishment of words; I MUST
begin every answer with the honorific "Mistress". Cato warns me to be on my best
behaviour lest I anger my Master or Mistress and warns me of the consequences of
offending either of them. His words aren't lost on me and I'm determined to do
all that I can to avoid any further punishment.

All four of us have been made to squat over one of the foul-smelling sinkholes
that serve as the slaves' toilets. It doesn't matter whether we "need to" or
not, Cato has commanded us to squat -there are to be no toilet breaks for us once
we begin our duties - and we do our best to obey. I do however need to piss which
surprises me considering the amount of body fluids I'd lost through sweat during
the day.

The constant swinging of the axe had exercised me to such an extent that my
shoulders and arms are leaden, my chest aches, my belly spasms, my legs still
quiver like jelly and my sun-broiled back is marked with the angry red flecks of
Marv's leather whip. I want for nothing more than to return to Norge's stall,
fling myself onto the straw bedding and sleep. But my day is far from over and I
must wait for the rest I so badly crave. And there is the ever recurring
realisation that tomorrow is to be a repeat of today.

I'd never concerned myself with the preparations a slave underwent to prepare
him for service in my dining-room. That fell within Cato's sphere of
responsibility and I'd always left it to him. To his credit, I'd never had
reason for complaint when I was Master. The naked slaves who served me at table
were always immaculately prepared; clean, smooth-bodied, oiled and
sweet-smelling and I'm now being made ready in an identical manner.

Even though we'd all been body shaved this morning, Cato insists that we do so
again. Of course, we aren't privy to Cato's thoughts; if we were, we'd know he
is anxious to make a good impression on his new Master and Mistress and will do
all within his power to insinuate himself into their good graces. He is to use
the four of us to impress them and his supervision of our preparation is
thorough.

Now smooth shaven, we are ordered under the shower heads and as Cato turns on
the faucets, we are blasted with the icy cold water which is still no warmer
than this morning's. He stands and watches as we shower and instructs us to
work in pairs soaping each other's bodies and paying particular attention to
those parts of our bodies that could give "offence". We are made to soap one
another's genitals, ass-cracks and armpits to remove any lingering traces of
our sweat or body odours. Inevitably, this close physical contact results in the
rampant erections we all "sport".

When he is satisfied that we are sufficiently clean, Cato orders us from the
showers and gives us towels of a coarse, grey material with which to dry
ourselves. As I dry my body, the roughness of the weave aggravates me; it
irritates my sunburned skin, hurts the still painful site of last night's caning
and I need to take special care not to "rub" my blistering brand. We work in
pairs to dry each other's backs. In my mind, I make the contrast between these
towels and the soft, fluffy, dazzling white ones that I had so recently been
accustomed to using.

Next, still working in pairs, Cato makes us anoint our bodies with slave oil.
This specially formulated unguent is highly perfumed and I now realise that this
is what keeps the dining-room slaves "sweet-smelling". It's strange how these
little things now begin to impress themselves on me.

As a Master I had taken the slaves for granted. Their faultless presentation at
my table had never caused me a second thought; it just happened. But then -why
should it interest me? What Master is concerned with the trivial matters that
keep his household running smoothly? Most Masters are too busy to be involved
in such mundane matters. The wise Master appoints a senior slave to the position
of steward or major domo and leaves such matters to him. Now these things take
on a new importance and I have awareness of what it means to be a slave.

Standing behind me, my partner massages this oil into the "hard to reach places"
of my back. He start at my shoulders and moves down over the sweep of my back
to my buttocks; all the while I find the sensual touch of his oil-slicked hands
on my body to be very erotic and I am highly charged. My cock throbs with
intense eagerness. But I'm not alone in this; my fellow slaves are all showing
their own excitement.

Perhaps it's my imagination, but my slave partner seems to be taking his time in
oiling the twin orbs of my ass; but I'm not complaining. In fact, when he slips
an oil slicked finger into my crack, I catch my breath and wait expectantly for
it to seek out my hole. I relax and wriggle backwards in an effort to meet his
finger "half way" He doesn't disappoint me and I enjoy the few brief moments of
"stolen" pleasure and I reciprocate in kind when it is my turn to oil his back.

But all good things must end and Cato brusquely orders us to "FINISH UP!" and
issues us with our loincloths.

Loincloths were NEVER worn when I was the Master. I regarded them as unnecessary
and almost bordering on the unnatural. I've always believed a slave's natural
state is total nudity. A slave's body must always be open to his owner's scrutiny -this
is a universal attitude held by most wise slave owners- and nothing should ever
be hidden from a Master's eyes. Therefore it makes sense that a slave should be
kept slave naked at all times. And it helps to impress upon the slave the true
meaning of his condition -that he is a lowly being and in the scheme of things he
stands at just one step up from that of a domestic animal.

Also for me there was the question of ascetics; what could be more pleasing to
the discerning eye than a naked and handsome, young slave with a beautifully
sculpted body of heroic proportions. I viewed my slaves almost as "objets
d'art", things of beauty to be lovingly admired and fondled as living statues.
It was the reason that I chose only the best slaves my money could buy. As a
Master, I considered myself to be a connoisseur of prime slave flesh. How ironic
it is that I can now be categorised as such. Without wishing to appear
"bigheaded", I know that I am what is known in the slave trade as a prime
specimen. And if I ever stand on the auction block, I will be presented to the
buyers as a "fancy" and fetch a high price for my owner.

There were other reasons why I kept my slaves naked. Without clothing they were
denied places to conceal weapons that could be used against one another or even
worse against their owner and other free persons.

Slave insurrections are now unknown; it is many years since the last one.
Initially, at the re-introduction of slavery almost a hundred years ago, there
were numerous outbreaks of violence as the newly enslaved fought against those
who owned and controlled them. But the authorities wisely and ruthlessly dealt
with any trouble makers; the mandatory sentence for a slave found guilty of
rebellion or incitement to rebellion was death. Our history books tell us that
these early authorities were inventive in their methods of execution. It might
have seemed brutal at the time, but these executions did have the desired
salutary effect on our slave population. Slave resurrections soon ceased and
the slaves, fearful of the righteous retribution of their Masters, settled down
and applied themselves diligently, if not happily, to being hardworking and
dutiful servants.

Whilst slave rebellions are a thing of the past, acts of violence by individual
slaves still occur and all owners need to keep a watchful eye on their slave
stock for any signs of trouble and take immediate remedial action. We no longer
execute rebellious slaves -unless a free person has been killed -and such a slave
ends his days in the living hell of the underground mines or the furnace like
heat of the quarries. It always seemed to me that the three to five years -the
average life span of a slave in these situations -is infinitely worse than the
quick release of an execution.

A third reason I kept my slaves naked was to prevent any petty pilfering of
food; without pockets it is hard to hide that elusive crust of bread or
forbidden piece of fruit. My grandfather had impressed upon me the need to be
vigilant with our slaves. He'd often told me all slaves will steal food from
their Masters if given the opportunity. We had done much to ensure a slave's
diet was the correct one for him. The diet may be bland but its composition is
balanced and designed to keep a slave healthy, strong, lean and in the peak of
condition. Proof of this can be found in the fact that there are seldom any fat
slaves to be seen. But the temptation to add just a little bit of "sweetness" to
his otherwise tasteless diet remains a powerful incentive for a slave to steal
food from his Master and I did all within my power to prevent this.

Therefore the wearing of a loincloth was frowned upon by me. Cato spoke the
truth when he told our Master, that my late grandmother would insist on covering
up any slaves who served her and her female guests when she entertained. My
grandmother was of the "old school" and she did this to spare the sensibilities
of her female guests. However, once they had departed, the loincloths came off
and things reverted to normal. But today I'm grateful that I'm to wear a
loincloth as I am introduced to my new Mistress.

The loincloths that Cato has chosen for us to wear are very simple ones,
consisting of an oblong piece of material that passes between our legs and tie
at both sides of the waist. As I don mine, I feel the soft, silky texture of the
material move soothingly against the lingering soreness of my ass. I look at my
fellow slaves and I have to admit that the loincloths do add a little something
-almost an air of mystery -to their appearances. The fine weave of the loincloths
does little to conceal their genitals which are clearly outlined through the
diaphanous material and my eyes are drawn to all three. With their strong,
muscular bodies highlighted by a covering of perfumed slave-oil, they truly are
impressive. They differ from me in that their appearances are flawless -without
blemish - whereas my body is sunburnt and marked by the stripes of Marv's whip.
Their bodies are of a uniform colour; mine is not. The sun reddened whiteness of
my midriff is in sharp contrast to the deeper tones of my upper body and legs
and my loincloth doesn't altogether hide the raised welts of Cato's caning;
these glow in shades of angry red and emerging blue-black bruises. The cane's
stripes are repeated on the back of my thighs. Altogether, I present a woeful
picture of a very wretched, new slave.

Tonight's dinner is to be an intimate one between our Master and his beloved
grandmother. Cato has gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that all will meet with
their approval and he has left nothing to chance. He has personally taken charge
of the preparations, fixing the menu, choosing what wines are to be served and
to impress our Mistress he has decided to use the exquisite, pale blue and gold
edged porcelain dinner setting that was my favourite and which, I as the former
Master, only used when entertaining my closest friends.

Blue has always been my favourite colour and I think Cato who is aware of this,
has deliberately chosen this colour as the dominant theme for tonight's dinner.
I sense this is yet another way of him "rubbing my nose" in the mire that my
life has turned into. Cato has taken his "blue" theme one step further: he has
opted to dress us in blue and gold loincloths that reflect the colour of the
dinner settings. The irony of this isn't lost on me and I'm feeling disconsolate.

Cato is fastidious in his preparations of both the dining-room and of the slaves
who are to serve as waiters. All four of us are subjected to his closest
scrutiny and last minute adjustments are made to us -just little things like an
adjustment to our loincloths to ensure they are tied correctly around our waists
and that our cocks and balls are snugly tucked away within their folds. Still
not satisfied, he seeks out any real or imaginary spots on our bodies where he
feels our coating of body-oil is too thin. In my case I'm made to apply another
coating to my chest and belly and I can now smell the subtle blend of perfumes
that disguise our less than pleasant, slave odours.

He now orders us polish our neck collars until they gleam which in my case isn't
possible. Unlike my three fellow slaves who wear shiny, silver coloured collars
around their necks, mine is of the ordinary iron type worn by field hands and
common work slaves. When it was fitted to me last evening, my Master had
intended to send me to "La Foret" at the earliest opportunity to begin work as
a common field slave and my collar reflects my status as a field hand.
However, there has been a delay in these plans, but as far as I know I'm still
to go out to the plantation to learn life as a "real" slave.

Cato shows his obvious distaste with me and given my wretched appearance who can
blame him. He considers it inappropriate to have me serve in the dining-room.
But the choice isn't his and he must comply with our Master's orders for me to
wait on his table. My three fellow slaves are up to the usual high standard
demanded by me when I was Master and they move with the easy assurance that I'd
always noted and approved of as they served at my table.

I, on the other hand, present a sorry sight and even I have to admit my clumsy
presence alongside my fellow slaves is incongruous. If I was still Master, I
would be affronted to have such a pitiful looking slave as I now am serve in my
dining-room. But my intuition tells me that my Master has a hidden agenda and I
suspect it has to do with the further shaming of me in the presence of Charlotte
Maratier. I hope for the humility, self-control and strength to face whatever he
"throws" at me and the obedience to accept any insults without protest; I really
couldn't front up to another session of Cato's cane. Then I think of Norge's
calm dignity of yesterday as he stood calmly while Major Swanston subjected our
cocks to close scrutiny. I draw comfort from that thought but how I wish Norge
was here with me now.

Finally satisfied with us, Cato shepherds us into the house through the "slaves'
only" back entrance and through the austere, cheerless rooms where the household
slaves work ceaselessly to ensure their Master's happiness and wellbeing.
Quickly, he hurries us through the kitchen which is a hive of activity as the
slave cooks busily prepare dinner. He pauses briefly to ascertain all is going
to his plans and my nostrils breath in the delicious, tantalising smells of
roasting meat and other cooking. My now empty stomach rumbles with hunger pangs
and I'm tormented with the thought that all such foods are now denied me. I must now
exist on the bland, tasteless diet of a slave.

We climb a bare, wooden stairway and pass through a doorway into another,
unrelated world of opulence and luxury. This is the domain of the Master of the
household and tears flood my eyes as I remember this had so recently belonged to
me. Yesterday, when I'd left the house it was through the grand, front entrance
as the heir, Lucien Barrois; now I return up the back stairs as the slave, Rafe.

My bare feet sink into the deep pile of the carpet as we make our way along a
wide passageway to the dining-room. This part of the house is well-known to me
and I'm familiar with its furnishings and art treasures all of which had been so
carefully chosen by me to enhance both my home and my life. At the far end of
the hallway, I see the double, mahogany doors that open into what was until
yesterday my private apartments and bedchamber. Now they are the private domain
of my Master, Guy Maratier and never again will I enter through those doors
unless I'm summoned to do so by him.

I shudder as I think of that possibility. How many times have I "summoned" a
newly acquired slave to my bedchamber and ordered him into my bed? How many
times have I exercised my Master's right to use these slaves for my selfish,
sexual gratification? And even when I wasn't using another slave, there was
always my body slave, Ben sleeping on the hard floor alongside my soft bed and
patiently waiting for my command to join me and to open up to my cock. Even
Norge has trod this passageway many times on his way to my bed and now I feel
deep shame in all this. It's ironic that it has taken my own enslavement for me
to truly understand how wrong I had been to have so callously exploited all
these helpless slaves without regard to their feelings. My selfishness as their
Master had blinded me to their deep despair and suffering.

Newly enslaved, I am still a virgin. I am "intact" and it is my Master's right
to use me for the very first time. He has the right to "take my cherry" and
there isn't anything I can do about it but to submit to him. Most masters
exercise this right over their new slaves -I know I did - and indeed see it as
their "duty" to induct the slave into his new role of giving pleasure to his
superiors. I wonder if my Master will exercise his right over me. The thought
that he might do so is repulsive and yet there is something about it that stirs
me. But what I don't know. Do I now possess a slave's fatalism and accept the
inevitability of my Master's right to use my body for his sexual gratification?

But there isn't time for such thoughts. Cato is in a hurry to organise and
instruct us. He "pairs" us off and I find I'm to work with the slave who had
just now oiled me. I try to remember his name but it eludes me. I do however;
remember buying him-he was another of my "finds" on one of my trawling trips
through the slave-yards. I don't remember his story or why he was enslaved. As
his Master those things weren't important to me. But to my shame, I do remember
having him in my bed and I recall his tight, young ass was a delight to use.

Cato fusses around ensuring for the "umpteenth" times that the dinner table is
correctly laid and that the wine is at the right temperature. Once more he
examines us and adjusts our loincloths arranging our packages so that they are
less obvious. He instructs us on our duties; I, with my slave partner, am to
wait on the new Mistress. The thought of this fills me with dread. I wonder what
will her re-action be when I stand before her as a slave.

I was unaware of her presence in the house. The woodpile where I'd spent my day
was hidden from the house by the stables and so I didn't see her arrival -her
triumphant return to the house she'd been banished from all those years ago. I
wasn't aware that my Master had arranged with Cato to bring her to the house and
to install her as the temporary mistress until he had set up a permanent
residence for her.

Cato, eager to ingratiate himself into her good graces, had personally organised
her transfer from the dilapidated house she'd lived in during the long years of
her exile to the luxurious apartment that had been used by my late grandparents.
In a concession to her old age, he'd left her to rest while he busied himself
with organising her first meal with her grandson in her temporary home. He is
determined that it will be a meal for them to remember -one that will reflect
favourably on his organising skills. And four of us have a part to play in that.
He harangues us with details of how we are to behave, the proper attitudes we
are to adopt and he warns we must be careful at all times not to drop items of
food or to spill any wines while we serve at table. Ominously, he warns us that
the consequences of doing so will be dire.

My fellow slaves seem unaffected by Cato's warning. They are after all, used to
serving in the dining-room and are perfectly relaxed. I on the other hand am
apprehensive and fearfully await my ordeal.

Cato continues to puts us through our paces as to what we are to do -simple things
like the correct placement of napkins on laps, the positioning of plates of food on
the table, how to pour the wine, and anticipating the right time to step forward
to be of assistance to the Master and Mistress. My three fellow slaves all pass
with faint praise from Cato; I, on the other hand, fail dismally and raise his
ire. He tells me I'm useless and will no doubt be sent down for a well-deserved
punishment. His words chill me; I can't begin to contemplate another caning from
him.

Finally, Cato is satisfied that all is in order and he orders the four of us
into position and we stand side by side against the wall just inside the door.
There is an attitude we must adopt; it is one of subservience and humility and
yet show an eagerness to serve. We stand with our feet eighteen inches apart and
with our hands clasped behind our backs. We straighten our bodies and bow our
heads and wait.

Suddenly the door opens and we respond to Cato's shouted instruction.

"OBEISANCE!"

Quickly, I fall to my knees and assume the position Cato had so carefully
drilled into me earlier. My forehead and the palms of my hands are pressed to
the floor and my ass is elevated. Like my three fellow slaves, I remain
motionless and listen to see who has entered the room.

"Good evening, Mistress. Are you quite rested?"

I hear Cato's obsequious question and realise I'm in the presence of my distant
relative and now Mistress, Charlotte Maratier.

"Yes thank you. I'm quite rested. Ah... what is your name again?"

With my nose pressed to the floor I'm not able to see who is speaking. But the
voice's timbre tells me it is that of an older person and its inflection it is
that of a cultured woman.

"Cato, Mistress, my name is Cato."

"Of course it is. You'll need to be patient with me Cato. I will get to know the
names of all the house slaves in time. They are named aren't they?"

"Yes Mistress. They all have names. The former Masters always named their house
servants."

"Yes I do recall my parents and my brother gave names to all their slaves. Are
these the slaves who are to serve us at dinner, Cato?"

"Yes Mistress. Do you wish to inspect them?"

"Yes Cato. Have them stand at display."

Quickly all four of us obey Cato's command and stand at display. I am third in
line and our Mistress moves slowly peering intently at each of us in turn before
asking for our names. Now she stands before me and I shrink from the intensity
of her gaze. I am terrified. This is the person who has orchestrated my downfall
and is instrumental in me becoming a slave.

"This is a sorry looking slave, Cato. Quite out of keeping with the other three,
wouldn't you agree?"

I sense she knows full well who I am but is intent on adding to my misery by
playing a "cat and mouse" game with me.

"I agree, Mistress. He's a miserable specimen. He's a new slave only welcomed
into the household last night as you can see by the fresh cane marks. The Master
had him splitting firewood all day. Mistress and as you can see, he's been
affected by the sun."

"A new slave you say, Cato?"

She acknowledges Cato's answer before instructing me to,

"Look at me boy!"

I lift my eyes to her face and for the first time I see my grandfather's sister.
I recognise the family features -so very much like the portraits of those other
Barrois family members hanging in the gallery at `La Foret'- and I see more than a
passing resemblance to him. But there is a difference; whereas his face was
kindly and his eyes always reflected his sense of humour, Charlotte's face
beneath her white hair has been twisted by bitterness and her eyes are
hate-filled and I know that hate is now directed at me.

But she retains the regal poise and calm exterior that was always a hallmark of
the Barrois women. Tall, slim and very erect, her bearing is autocratic and
commanding. I know instinctively that she will tolerate no insubordination from
me or from any other slaves for that matter. Somehow I know the house is to
operate under a harsher, grimmer regime than was ever the case under my
grandparents or me. The slaves are about to learn that life under their Barrois
masters was infinitely preferable to their new Maratier owners.

"What is your name, boy?' She asks of me.

"Mistress, I'm called Rafe, Mistress."

"Ah so you're Rafe? Your Master has told me all about you, Rafe. Turn
around......slowly."

Slowly, I move around in a full circle allowing my Mistress to scrutinise me
from all angles.

"Once more! The slave shows potential don't you think, Cato? He has a strong
body and fine features. I do see a resemblance to my nephew, Henri but of course
they're been coarsened by his slave blood. Still I do see potential in him. I
wonder what plans Master Guy has for this slave."

"I don't know, Mistress."

Cato is wise in the ways of slave diplomacy and as he is unsure about his new
owners, he answers carefully. He knows what our Master's plans are for me, but
keeps a still tongue. Slaves of his station keep all conversations with their
masters to themselves and will never divulge them to another free person for
fear of retribution.

My Mistress loses interest in me and addresses Cato.

"Cato, I wonder if can ask a favour of you. I'll have a problem in remembering
one slave from the other. Is it possible to name them while I'm here? Perhaps
you could write their names in large black letters on their chests and backs. My
eyes aren't as good as they used to be and that would assist me so much."

"Why, of course, Mistress. I'll see to it at once."

"When do you expect the Master to return, Cato?"

"I only know that Master said he'd be home in time for dinner, Mistress. So that could any
time soon."

"Oh well, we must await his arrival. In the meantime Cato you can show me the
table settings and tell me about tonight's menu. Tomorrow I'll discuss with you
the running of the household and you can take me on a tour of the house. It's my
intention to involve myself in every aspect of the running of the household and
I see your role as that of a conduit to see that my wishes are carried out. You
do understand that Cato, don't you?"

"Yes Mistress. As you wish, Mistress." Cato is careful to hide the dismay in his
voice.

Poor Cato! His undisputed role as manager of the house has been challenged. He
is to be fully answerable to this very formidable woman. She has reduced his
status to that of the other household slaves and she neither seeks nor wants his
opinions. Secretly, he hopes her stay will be a short one so that things can
revert back to the way they have always been.


To be continued.....