Date: Fri, 8 Jun 2012 22:58:29 -0700 (PDT)
From: Christian Debus <servus4u@ymail.com>
Subject: "The Aftermath 2" (Legacy and Consequence) Chapter 5 Gay Male/Authoritarian

The Aftermath 2
(Legacy and Consequence)
Chapter 5
The Litter Bearers

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

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Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris): June, 2012
Read my stories at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Jean-Christophe_Stories

"The characters and ideas 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 5: The Litter Bearers

As I'm led away from the selling platform to the holding pens, I pass my
new Master, Obadiah Clements. I barely catch a glimpse of him for he is
surrounded by a group of sycophantic well- wishers who are congratulating
him on his purchase of me.

In the main, the well-wishers are those I'd once thought were my
friends. How wrong I was in thinking that.  I am so ashamed at what I have
become and lower my head hoping to pass them undetected.

Obadiah is in the middle of the group; a young slave stands at his side and
holds an umbrella over his Master's head to shield him from the intensity
of the sun's burning rays. The conversation is animated and I wonder how
much of it is about me. Perhaps, in thinking that, I am placing too much
importance on myself. From within the group, I hear my Master's high
pitched giggling and his lisping responses to his well-wishers.

Fortunately for me, I pass the group unnoticed. The attendant, who leads
me, tugs at the leash attached to my collar as an incentive to keep me
moving. Above me, on the platform, I hear the auctioneer introducing Lot 9
to the eager buyers.

I think back to the fifteen to twenty minutes since we'd both stood in the
race waiting as Lot 7 was sold. As he was taken out of the race, we were
ordered to shuffle forward to fill the gap he'd left.  The overseers had
used the ends of their canes and whips to prod us into closer contact with
one another and their loud exhortations rang in my ears.

"Right then, you lot! Move forward! Let's have you one behind the other -
nuts to butts!  Quickly now!"

There'd been some comfort from the close physical contact of another
slave's body pressing hard against my own naked one; but not in any sexual
sense. True, the feel of Lot 9's rampant erection pressing against my bare
ass was enjoyable, but at that moment, the warmth of his hard body pressing
against mine gave me emotional support rather than any lewd ideas.

Emotionally, I was at my lowest ebb and my fraught mind was filled with
fear and uncertainty. Yet strangely, the touch of another's body pressed
against my own did give me some comfort; it met my very human need for
close physical contact with my fellow man in my time of stress. Through our
close proximity, I could feel the accelerated beating of Lot 9's heart and
the nervous rise and fall of his anxious breathing which matched my own.
Yet, it had a calming effect on me and I took selfish comfort in knowing
that he was to share my fate.

That was twenty minutes ago and so much has happened since then. I have
been sold and my life has been irrevocably changed. I am now a slave in
every sense of the word and soon my new Master, once he has paid for me,
will claim me and take me to my new home.  In the interim, I will be locked
in a holding cage as I await his collection.

The holding cages are located to one side of the selling-yard and are
screened from the buyers' view by a high stone wall. As we pass through the
gateway, away from the frenzied activity of the auction into the relevant
calm of the holding-yard, I am handed over to the custody of an employee
and his slave assistants who are to look after me until my new Master comes
to claim me.

I look towards the small cages and see they hold the seven slaves who'd
preceded me to the auction-block. Most of them stand at the front of their
cages holding onto the bars - almost as though they need their support to
stand - and watch as I am processed. I see Lot 7's tear-stained face
looking in my direction and I notice that his body is convulsed by his deep
sobbing.

The overseer, who'd brought me from the auction-block, tells the official
in charge of the holding- pens that I have been sold to Mr Obadiah
Clements. Humiliated, I stand passively, as the official writes this in
large black letters on my chest and belly - 'Sold to Mr O Clements'.

Then, I am placed in my cage to wait on my Master's pleasure. Nervously, I
pace around the perimeter of my prison until Lot 9 is brought into the
yard. Like my fellow slaves I stand at the front of my pen and watch
through the bars as he too is marked and placed in the cage next to mine.

The afternoon moves slowly as one by one other slaves join us from the
race. Then, about midway through the auction, the buyers begin arriving to
claim their new purchases. They present their receipts to the overseer in
charge who removes a slave from his cage and hands him over to his new
master.

I watch as lot 7 is claimed by Theodore Russell, and despite the
precariousness of my own situation, I am moved by the unfortunate new
slave's obvious distress.  His heartrending cries to his absent parents tug
at my emotions. As he begins his slavery, there is no one from his family
or from his old, free life to farewell him or to offer him words of
encouragement. He is very much on his own.

His useless pleas fall on indifferent ears as the Redgrove Plantation farm
manager, Silas Hacker dispassionately ties his wrists behind his back and
attaches a leash to his neck collar. Tearfully, the wretched slave watches
as the overseer hands the leash to his new Master, young Ben Redgrove.

As I watch, I am reminded of a terrified, unbroken colt in the hands of its
wrangler for the very first time. Ben Redgrove tugs at the leash but the
young slave baulks and stands his ground. I'm sure this isn't done out of
his intransigence; the new slave is too traumatised to be disobedient and
his reluctance to move is a sign of his panic and confusion.

But any display of disobedience - be it deliberate or unintentional - is
unacceptable and the slave pays a high price. I doubt he's even aware of
what's happening as Silas Hacker positions himself behind the slave and
unclips a short, leather quirt form his belt.

He does however feel the whip's savage bite as it cuts across his bare
ass. Silas Hacker is in no mood to allow for the slave's nervousness and
uncertainty.  The overseer's face is suffused bright red and the corded
veins in his neck stand out as tangible signs of his anger. The strength of
his whipping arm is fuelled by the spitefulness of his nature and the slave
pays dearly for his non-compliance.  I'm unsure of how many times the whip
is applied to the slave's ass. I cease to count after five as I watch the
slave 'running on the spot' with each cruel cut of the whip. I listen to
his cries of pain as they reverberate around the courtyard and unsettle the
still unclaimed occupants of the holding-pens.

Then, with one final swipe of the whip, Silas Hacker shouts to the slave.

"Move yourself boy! Move your lazy ass! NOW!"

I watch as the sobbing slave, now completely cowed by Silas's whip, trails
after his young Master. As he walks away, I see the criss-cross pattern of
angry, red stripes on his ass. The slave has learned his first lesson in
obedience and it's obvious that he'll be very sore for a number of days.

And the slave's treatment at Silas Hacker's hands serves as a salutatory
warning to those of us who are still locked in our pens of what awaits us
should we anger our new masters when they come to collect us. I resolve to
behave myself and, as distasteful as it is, to submit to my new Master,
Obadiah Clements.

And I don't have long to wait!

As is his custom, Obadiah Clements makes the grand entrance; he announces
his arrival with his familiar, high-pitched talking and shrill giggling. I
watch as he walks laboriously towards my holding- pen. His young
slave-attendant walks three paces behind him and shades him from the sun
with an umbrella. Even the umbrella is a reflection of Obadiah's flamboyant
taste. It is overly large - but given his enormous bulk perhaps it needs to
be - and it is floral patterned in garish colours of red, blue, green and
yellow. But I notice that the caftan and turban he wears are identically
patterned and over the coming days I will learn that my new Master has
several such matching sets.

For as long as I have been acquainted with him, Obadiah has always worn a
full-length caftan and turban. I'd always seen this as an outward
expression of his 'artistic bent'. I'd regarded his flamboyant manner of
dress as eccentric - but deliberate -and intended to differentiate him from
those he disparagingly referred to as the 'great, unwashed masses' and who
he greatly despises. But as I get to know and serve my new Master I will
learn that this isn't so.

As yet, I'm unaware of what duties my new Master will allocate to
me. Ultimately, I am destined to serve with Toby as one of his personal
body-slaves and a carrier of his new sedan chair. And part of my duties as
his body-slave will see me assisting Toby in showering Obadiah - a
monumental task at best - and then to dress him.

I will discover that my Master isn't being eccentric or flamboyant in
wearing a caftan and turban - although, I suspect he does enjoy the
notoriety they attract - but it's simply a case of convenience.

As I wrestle with him in the shower, I will be repulsed by his naked
obesity. And as I help Toby to dress him I will see the impossibility of
him wearing normal clothes. I doubt that any tailor could make trousers
with a sufficient girth to wrap around his enormous waistline or with legs
wide enough to encase his gargantuan lower limbs.

I will find it is much easier to slip a caftan over his head - and even
this will prove somewhat difficult - than to dress him in a shirt and
trousers. Even the wearing of an undergarment will present me with
difficulty. There are no underwear manufacturers who make garments of
sufficient size that would fit Obadiah's nether regions.

Each morning, it will become my unhappy lot to cover my Master's nakedness
with the square piece of cloth that serves as his underwear. It will be my
task to pass it through his legs and tie it off on either side of his
waist. But that is still in the future.

Within the next day or so, Toby will show me the correct way to wrap a
turban around our Master's head. I will discover this is done with the
purpose of hiding his bald pate from public scrutiny.  Obadiah Clements's
scalp shows the ravages of time and its mottled appearance adds to his
overall repulsiveness - a repulsiveness he goes to great lengths to
minimise by wearing a caftan and turban and dressing in the manner of an
oriental potentate.

Obadiah pauses outside my cage and clutching the receipt which acknowledges
his payment of me, he waits impatiently while the yard overseer and his
assistants prepare another slave for handover to his new owner.

He turns to look at me and speaks.

"Oh dear me, Andrew! You have been a very naughty boy haven't you? And look
where your naughtiness has gotten you. You've lost everything and you're
now a slave. I wonder what your poor father would think of you."

Mention of my father brings tears to my eyes. My new Master's question is
one that has weighed heavily on me in recent times. For I know the answer
to it. My father would be appalled at my poor judgement and lack of
business acumen. He'd have been angry that I'd ignored the sound advice of
my farm steward, Toby. In fact, my father had singled Toby out for this
role very early on and had trained him in all aspects of farm
management. And no doubt my father would have been ashamed of my new slave
status. On reflection, I have let down my father, my ever faithful slave,
Toby and even more so I have failed myself.  I am a bitter disappointment!
I am too overwhelmed to answer the question.

"Andrew, I asked you a question. Answer me!" Obadiah's voice is shrill with
his indignation.

"My father would be ashamed and disappointed with me..." then I remember
that I am now a slave and this man owns me. I'm aware of his mercurial
temperament and wishing to avoid any punishment, I acknowledge him as
"......... Master."

The fact that I do so seems to please Obadiah.

"That was very good Andrew!  You have called me 'Master' for the first time
and now I must decide what I will call you. Andrew is far too grand a name
for a slave and besides it is a reminder of better days, isn't it? No we
need something more in keeping with your new status. We shall call you
Andy.  That rhymes nicely with Toby. Andy and Toby has a nice ring to
it. Andy and Toby - yes, you'll be my two body slaves and sedan chair
bearers."

Now I know what my duties will be. I am to serve with Toby as one of our
Master's personal body slaves and made to carry his chair through the
streets of the city. The thought of staggering naked through the streets
under the impossibly heavy burden of our Master's bulk fills me with
shame. The only redeeming thing is that I am to be re-united with Toby and
to work with him. But my lingering sense of guilt sounds out a
warning. Will Toby forgive me and accept me as his fellow slave?

The Yard supervisor is now ready to deliver me into the hands of my new
Master. As he takes the receipt from Obadiah, he examines it before closely
looking at me. Obviously, I interest him and he congratulates Obadiah
Clements on his purchase.

"You have purchased well, Mr Clements. As always you seem to have the knack
for seeking out only the best slaves on offer. This one would have to be
among the tops of today's offering."

"Why thank you, overseer!" My Master simpers. "Yes, he's a fine slave;
quite delightful isn't he?"

"You have quite a flair for choosing your slaves, Mr Clements."

"Well, I do like to buy only the best slaves my money allows. It's an
indulgence I allow myself. I like to collect slaves as others collect
stamps, coins or rare books."

"May I ask how many slaves do you own?"

"Of course you can! I have eight litter-bearers who also do all the heavy
work around my home and maintain my gardens, my umbrella slave, a cook and
an assistant cook in the kitchen and this new purchase, who with one other
slave, will serve me as my personal body slaves and double up as carriers
of my new sedan chair. Oh, and my major domo! That makes fourteen."

"That's quite a handful, Mr Clements. How do you control them?"

"That's easy! I control them with the whip and the cane. And I do have a
'trustee' slave who acts as my major domo and he keeps them all in
check. He's my instrument of authority with the responsibility for
delivering any punishments that are necessary."

"You seem to have a well-regulated household, Mr Clements."

"Indeed I do, overseer! I have a very orderly mind and I can't abide a
disorganised home. But if you don't mind, I need to take delivery of my
slave and be on my way. I have dinner guests tonight and I must return home
to see that all is in readiness for their arrival."

"Certainly Mr Clements, I'm sorry to have kept you. I'll just have my
assistants remove him from his pen and tie his wrists behind his back and
then you can be on your way."

"Don't bother tying his wrists. He'll walk beside my litter as I return
home."

I'm released from my holding pen and given into my Master's custody. There
are a few awkward moments as I process the fact that I am now Obadiah
Clements's newest slave acquisition and that he has officially taken
delivery of me.

The silence is pregnant with an unknown expectation. What am I to do? I
recall back to those occasions when I'd taken delivery of a new slave and
how I'd expected the slave to fall to his knees and pay homage at my
feet. Does my new Master expect this from me? Most probably he does.

One part of me tells me I should fall to my knees and crawl to Obadiah's
feet and kiss them in homage. Yet, another part of me - my false, free
man's pride - prevents me from doing so. But the question is academic and
really, it isn't mine to answer. My new Master decides for me.

"Overseer, could you beat the slave to his knees please." Obadiah's words
express his impatience and anger. "He has failed to pay me the respect due
to me as his owner."

The overseer happily obliges and applies his cane to my ass and to the back
of my thighs as he orders me to.

"Kneel slave! Now crawl to your new owner's feet."

As I crawl forward on all fours my upturned ass and shoulders provide a
tempting target for the overseer's cane. As the repeated blows rain down on
me I scuttle forward in a vain attempt to avoid the cane. Up until this
moment, I'd only had the odd swipe of slave handler's cane to urge me
forward or to emphasise a command given to me. And so I knew of the pain a
cane can cause.

But I'd not experienced such a sustained beating and the pain I now suffer
is intense. I have just one desire and that is to have it cease. Any
foolish free pride I possess soon dissipates as I kiss Obadiah Clements's
feet.

Having paid homage, I remain in a crouching position waiting for my next
instruction. The hem of my Master's caftan brushes against my forehead as I
study the quality of his footwear. Given his enormous bulk, Obadiah is at
best unsure on his feet - a condition I will become acquainted with over
the coming days - and his shoes are made with this in mind.

Handcrafted from the softest quality leather, they are very flexible and
shaped to fit his feet like a second skin. As I wait, I can admire the
finely grained leather and the exquisite hand-stitching. It would appear
that my Master doesn't stint himself in anyway. Whether it is a pair of
shoes or a new slave, Master doesn't spare any expense. I know that is so
from the high price he just paid for me.

My body stings from the overseer's cane strokes and I wonder if my body is
marked by them. I didn't count the strokes; I was more intent on escaping
them by crawling to my Master's feet.

I can't see my back, but if I could, I would see there are four
criss-crossed stripes on my shoulders and a similar number on my ass. And
of course, there are the initial ones on the back of my legs that had
forced me to my knees.

If I could see my Master's face, I would be shocked at his look of
salacious pleasure as he gazes down on me. I have suffered my first beating
as his slave and it won't be the last. I am to discover that all his slaves
are perpetually marked by the cane, the strap, and on the more extreme
occasion, by the whip. And as of now, I join their unhappy ranks.

"I thank you for your assistance, overseer," Obadiah simpers, "in bringing
my slave to order."

"Think nothing of it, Mr Clements. I was happy to oblige and I was only
doing my job. Do you need further assistance with him?"

"No thank you! I'm sure I can handle him from here.  UP ON YOUR FEET,
SLAVE!"

Master's shouted command sees me hastily scrambling to my feet.  I stand
before him and I submissively lower my eyes to the ground. The tone of his
voice combines with the cane's sting to warn me that I must tread
cautiously in my dealings with him.

"Heel, Andy!"

I'm left puzzled by Obadiah's command. What am I supposed to do? I know
farmers order their working sheep-dogs to 'heel' and I assume that this is
what I must do. But how do I heel? How many paces must I walk behind my
Master and to which side of his person - left or right?

I am perplexed and unsure of what my Master expects of me. But he gives me
further instruction under his 'guiding hand'.

I am unprepared for my Master's stinging slap to the right side of my face
or for his torrent of abuse.

"You stupid slave! I gave you an order. Obey me or I'll strip the hide from
your back when I get you home."

The threat of a whipping terrifies me and I blurt out my apology.

"I'm sorry Master! But I don't know what to do. How do I heel?"

My contrition seems to mollify my Master's anger and he speaks in a more
conciliatory tone.

"Of course, I forgot you're new to slavery and what I now demand from
you. I expect any slaves who attend me to walk three paces to my rear. My
umbrella slave walks on my right so you must walk on my left. Do you
understand?"

"Yes Master!"

I move to three paces at the rear of my Master next to the young umbrella
slave who is on my right.  Nervously, I look to him - perhaps seeking some
guidance by watching what he does - and I see the bleakness of his
position. His handsome face is devoid of any expression; except for his
eyes which mirror his pain. I see that his smooth, hairless body wears the
stripes of a very recent beating and that they match the ones on my back
and ass.

I estimate the slave's age at about nineteen or twenty and his naked body
is over-adorned with heavy jewellery. There is an ornate torc fastened
around his neck with matching amulets around his tight biceps and anklets
around his feet. His generous genitalia is overly emphasised by the use of
a three ringed cinch which isolates his balls from his cock which itself is
thrust forward into prominent, crude display.

His longish, brown hair is tied back into a ponytail - similar to the one
Toby now wears - and it is tied with a green ribbon.

The slave's adornments are ostentatious; however, they are an indication of
his Master's flair for the tasteless.

I wonder if I am to be similarly adorned.

At the moment, my appearance is in sharp contrast to my fellow
slave's. While his body is well- groomed, I have the new slave's rough and
ready appearance. I retain my body hair and I wear the temporary, iron
collar of the slave-yard.

Obadiah slowly moves out of the yard and back into the selling area. The
umbrella slave and I fall into step behind him and the two of us pace
ourselves to our Master's cumbersome walk.

Above us another naked slave stands on the auction block and I hear the
auctioneer extolling his many saleable features to the remaining buyers. At
this late stage, most buyers and vendors have finished their business at
the auction and many have retired to one of the nearby taverns to celebrate
either a good sale or a worthwhile purchase.

Our progress is laboriously slow and fortunately, Obadiah doesn't stop to
talk to several well-wishers who call out their congratulations over the
staccato repartee of the auctioneer as he strives to extract more bids from
the buyers.

"Well done, Obadiah! Another good buy." Or "You've purchased well!"

Of course, these remarks refer to me and I'm aware that I am the subject of
close scrutiny. I hope my Master doesn't stop to talk thereby sparing me
the indignity of any personal comments. However, Obadiah is in a hurry to
return home - he has his dinner guests to prepare for - and he merely
acknowledges the good wishes with an exaggerated, courtly nod of his head
or a princely wave of his pudgy hand.

As we pass from the sale-yard, the loud rap of the gavel and the
auctioneer's triumphant shout of - "SOLD!" - rings out and announces the
successful sale of yet another slave.

We enter the stabling yard conveniently set aside for the tethering of the
buyers' and spectators' conveyances. This late in the afternoon, the yard
is relatively empty with only a few bored ponies and traps tied to the
hitching posts. Mostly, the ponies have to wait patiently while their
owners attend to the business of the market and many have been standing in
the same spot since early morning. Their distress from their inactivity is
obvious as they fidget from their boredom and listlessly shuffle their
feet.

And waiting for his return is our Master's litter!

I have seen Obadiah's litter many times; the last was the night of my
ill-fated soiree when I'd introduced Antonio Varo's bronze work of the
wrestlers to my guests.  I recall that night the eight, naked slaves had
theatrically gilded bodies after the fashion of a Neronian orgy in ancient
Rome.  Today, their bodies are still naked but not gilded. Instead, their
muscular bodies glisten under a coating of display oil. The eight kneeling
slaves, four on either side of the litter, are sitting back on their heels
in the resting position and have done so since Obadiah's arrival before the
sale. And like the two legged ponies, they wait patiently for their
Master's return.

The litter itself is overly ornate; its rich, mahogany timber is
hand-carved into all manner of mythological beasts and beings meant to
sublimely suggest to the casual observer that its occupant is a 'man of the
arts'. Fortuitously, for the miserable slaves who must shoulder the litter,
its builder had sought to compassionately ease their burden by building it
on a strong, lightweight metal frame rather than a heavy wooden
one. Despite this, the litter remains an intolerable burden for its
wretched bearers even without its overweight passenger.

The litter is designed so that its occupant can travel comfortably in a
reclining position. Its interior is finished in rich, scarlet and gold
patterned brocade with matching cushions and a canopy of gold cloth
provides welcome shade from the sun's heat and burning rays.

As their Master approaches the eight slaves stir themselves and rise up
from the resting position into a kneeling one. Their enforced inactivity
has distressed them and their muscles ache from lack of
exercise. Paradoxically, they welcome their Master's return for it means
they will now be pressed back into service and have the opportunity to ease
their cramped leg muscles.

I look to see if Toby is one of the eight kneeling slaves but from the rear
it is hard to distinguish between them. Their nudity gives them anonymity
and the sameness of their appearance robs them of any individuality. All
are uniform in height, build and musculature and only the colour of their
hair differentiates them. But their inclined heads makes it even harder to
recognise one from the other and I only see their bowed shoulders, their
muscular asses and the soles of their feet.

And all without exception bear the stripes of their Master's cane on their
backs.

As Master readies himself to climb into the litter he orders me to,

"Andy, drop to your knees and assume the 'all fours' position."

I am puzzled by his command but fearful of his displeasure I do as
commanded and wait on his next move. I don't have long to wait; assisted by
the umbrella slave, Obadiah attempts to use my back as a step up into the
litter.

I am unprepared for this and my arms buckle under the bulk of my Master's
weight. As I struggle to regain my balance, he teeters precariously on my
back and is forced to step down. His frustration at my failure explodes
into cold anger as he viciously kicks me in the ribs and tells me.

"You stupid, clumsy dolt. I'll teach you to be more careful for your
Master's safety!

But even this doesn't soothe his anger; from somewhere within the litter he
retrieves a leather strap and viciously lashes my unprotected back with
surprising strength. In coming days, I will see this scene repeated with
frightening regularity. I will come to see the true spitefulness of Obadiah
Clements's nature as he punishes his slaves for even the most trifling
offences.

I have nowhere to crawl away from my Master's physical onslaught and I have
no other option other than to wait as he works through his anger. But each
blow adds to my pain and soon I hear my self- pitying pleas for leniency.

"Please Master, please no more?"

How quickly I have adjusted to the mindset of a slave!

Eventually my Master has vented his spleen and once more I am commanded to
assume the 'all fours' position.

This time I am better prepared and I tighten my arms and legs to take the
weight of my Master's body and I straighten my back to provide a stable
foothold for him. Once more he is assisted by the young slave to clamber up
onto my back; momentarily, he pauses and grinds his heel into my flesh.  It
is as though he is testing me to see if I will again buckle under his
weight. I am determined not to do so and despite my shame at his
humiliating use of me as a 'footstool' I remain rock solid steady.

He steps from my back into the litter and above me I sense - as I can't see
- him settling into the thick, cushioned luxury of his litter. The young
slave folds his umbrella and places it somewhere within the litter and
waits. Then, at Obadiah's command, he too climbs into the litter and lays
full length at his Master's side and awaits his pleasure.

I'm still on my hands and knees and wonder what to do. I raise my head
slightly and see that the bearers are still in a kneeling
position. However, I can see from the tension in their muscled backs that
they are ready for action. Like the well-oiled cogs of a machine or the
tightly wound springs of a clock their bodies are perfectly attuned to
their labours.

On Obadiah's imperious command to "STAND!" all eight litter-bearers move as
one; with effortless precision they rise from their knees to their
feet. Their movements are fluid and reflect the training they have received
at the hands of their Master.

I follow their lead and stand.

Expectantly, the slaves wait for their next instruction but Obadiah
addresses me.

"Andy, you will walk alongside my litter and pace yourself to the bearers'
speed. And you will also remain in step with them. One thing I can't abide
is sloppiness in how my slaves' deport themselves.  Stand up straight and
walk tall. And keep your eyes straight ahead of you. I won't have you
gazing around at what's happening elsewhere. Disobey me and you'll be added
to the list of bearers who have already offended me and, with them, you
will be punished when I arrive home. Do you understand me?"

"Yes Master!"

"Good! Then let us move. WALK ON!"

Simultaneously, all eight slaves lead off with their left feet and I do the
same and fall into step with them. We move out of the comparative calm of
the sale-yards into the busy street leading towards the city centre. Soon
we are caught up in the chaos of the city's late afternoon traffic. As
required by the city ordinances, the litter travels on the left of the road
to allow room for faster moving traffic to pass us.

I'm acutely aware of my nakedness. This is my first appearance as a naked
slave on the streets of the city and I am convinced that all eyes are
focused on me. I'm yet to understand that most passers-by are unaffected by
my nakedness. I am a slave and as such they pay me no attention. I will
learn whenever a member of the public does show any interest in me it will
be to admire my body and to compliment my Master on his ownership of it.
But for now I am humiliated by my nudity and I feel the great weight of my
shame bearing down on me.

Mindful of my new Master's instructions, I keep my eyes focused on the way
ahead. This gives me an opportunity to observe the display of raw muscle
and the animal like strength of the litter bearers.  The late afternoon sun
glistens erotically on their oil-coated bodies and highlights the muscular
perfection of their naked physiques. This in turn, emphasises the muscles
in their strong backs interacting with one another as they move
forward. Their biceps are rounded balls of hard muscle as the slaves
carefully balance the litter on their broad shoulders while the striding
out of their powerful legs provides the litter with its motive power.

Suggestively, their trim, rounded buttocks undulate in time with their
steps and for the first time I catch an occasional glimpse of their
low-hanging, cinched balls bobbing between their thighs.  Soon the heavy
burden of the litter and its two occupants has the slaves panting from
their exertions. I hear their laboured breathing and see the accelerated
rise and fall of their chests.

Then their Master's order is given to.

"Increase your speed! Faster damn you! Move your lazy asses or I'll have
you all caned when we get home."

In response to their Master's incessant demands, the slaves do quicken
their pace but the effort soon proves difficult to maintain as they stagger
under the combination of unrealistic speed and intolerable weight. Their
ragged breathing turns to rasping as they hungrily gulp air into their
oxygen starved lungs. The fluid, comfortable ride enjoyed by their Master
now becomes a lurching test of his endurance. As the slaves' knees buckle
and the litter sways from side to side, Obadiah is fearful of being toppled
out of his litter should a slave falter and stumble.

Reluctantly, he gives the order to.

"Slow Walk!"

Obadiah is aware that he has pushed his litter-slaves to the limits of
their physical endurance and he is displeased with their inability to match
the speed he required of them. As the slaves regain their footing and the
litter steadies itself, he thinks darkly about the ingratitude of his
slaves. He is a good Master isn't he? And the miserable wretches are well
cared for aren't they?

As their owner, he provides them with a dry stable and warm, straw bedding
for their nocturnal rest and they have two, generous meals a day; one when
they wake and the second at the end of the day when their labours
cease. It's true they miss out on a midday meal but practicality dictates
the circumstances of that situation. Mostly, the litter-slaves are in
service during the day and it would be impossible to feed them. And really,
Obadiah has decided they perform better with their bellies empty and their
digestive systems not overtaxed with processing food.

Obadiah is running late; his business at the slave-market had kept him
longer than he'd expected and it isn't unreasonable of him to ask for a
little extra effort from his slaves. One would think the ingrates would
have extended themselves - and gladly so - to deliver him home in time to
prepare for his dinner guests. This would be a way for them to show their
appreciation of belonging to such a benevolent owner.  Surely, that isn't
asking too much of them?

The more he thought on this the blacker his mood became. Well, two can play
at the game of give and take. Tonight, there'd be no evening meal for the
litter-slaves and he'd have his major domo give each slave a severe beating
of ten strokes of the cane.

Perhaps a night with an empty belly and a blistered ass will refocus their
minds on their slave duties and responsibilities to him.

Agitated, Obadiah reaches out to the young slave lying at his side and
begins to fondle his balls.  As he manipulates both balls between his
forefinger and thumb, his mood mellows. For Obadiah, a slave's 'worry
beads' have a soothing effect upon him. He thinks about Toby and how his
balls always calm him. Perhaps his newest slave's balls will have a similar
effect in moments of stress.

This sweetens his mood and now his thoughts centre on his new slave; the
former art dilettante, Andrew Trevorrow. Poor, foolish Andrew! One could
almost feel sorry for him. But really, his undoing was of his own
making. After all, he was nothing more than a country bumpkin who'd held
artistic and social pretensions far above his true, social status.

In reality, he'd quite liked Andrew; there was something very likeable
about him if one was prepared to look beyond the farmer's ruddy complexion
and soiled fingernails. But of course, there was his appalling countryman's
accent to contend with which did tax even his good humour and patience.

As an aside to that, Obadiah reflects that his new slave, Andy will need to
be trained to speak with a more refined air. But then as a slave, Andy
won't be required to speak that often and like all his other slaves he'll
need to keep a still tongue in his head.

But really, it had all been too much when Andrew had bought Antonio Varo's
bronze wrestlers. Such a magnificent work of art belonged with the true
connoisseur - such as he - and not with some illiterate art novice. He'd go
further and describe Andrew as an art barbarian who'd overreached.

Obadiah had inwardly seethed as he'd unveiled the statue of the two
wrestlers at Andrew's invitation. He'd been indignant when Andrew had asked
him to be the guest speaker at his soiree which presented the statue to the
public for the first time. His first inclination was to say no and to snub
Andrew's attempt to break into his city based circle of true art lovers.
As the undisputed doyen of the group and its arbiter of good taste, he had
standards to maintain and Andrew Trevorrow's noveau riche aspirations were
out of place with them and should be firmly rejected.

Of course, Obadiah had convinced himself that envy of Andrew's acquisition
of the wrestlers had no part to play in his initial re-action to Andrew's
request. However, his curiosity had gotten the better of him. After all,
here was an opportunity to closely inspect Varo's latest work at close hand
and to grandstand before a gathering of his fawning admirers. And there
isn't anything that the opinionated Obadiah enjoys more than to pontificate
at length before a captive audience. And so he'd graciously accepted
Andrew's invitation to unveil the statue.

But the night had left him appalled. Andrew Trevorrow's gaucheness
manifested itself in all the wrong ways. The food was uninspiring and
obviously it had ben mass produced at the local tavern; although, in
fairness, the wines had proved to be surprisingly good. But the
entertainment! What could one say about that?

The main attraction for the guests' entertainment had been a series of
wrestling bouts between Andrew's brutish, farm slaves in a sunken pit of
red, oil-soaked soil. When introducing the bouts, Andrew had explained that
this was a form of Asian wrestling which he'd read about and he'd decided
it was an appropriate theme for his soiree. His introduction was politely
accepted without any great enthusiasm.

Poor Andrew! He'd gone to great pains to impress his guests and failed
dismally.

Obadiah had tried to look interested as the slaves slipped and slithered
their way through a series of boring, elimination bouts. But, undoubtedly,
the highlights of the night were the superb, young slaves who served as
food and drink waiters. The sight of their naked bodies excited Obadiah and
he over indulged with both food and drink. He made a point of asking Andrew
about these slaves and was surprised to hear that he'd hired them from the
upmarket, gentlemen's brothel, the Patroklos Club.

For Obadiah, these slaves were the only bright spot in an otherwise truly
forgettable evening.

Not surprisingly, things began to spiral out of control for Andrew shortly
after his soiree. Foolishly, he'd already sold his farm steward, Toby and
without his guiding hand, Andrew unwisely over extended his lines of credit
and lost everything.  Fortuitously for Obadiah, Andrew Trevorrow now finds
himself as Obadiah's newest slave, Andy

Still as he looks out at Andy he is well pleased. The slave is eminently
suited for his future role as a carrier of his new sedan chair and a bearer
for his litter.  And turning his gaze to the opposite side of the litter he
sees Andrew Trevorrow's former slave Toby.

Obadiah has plans for both slaves beginning this very night. He's invited a
few close friends from his art loving circle to dine with him and to
witness Andy's induction into slavery. Andy will be known to them - indeed
they'd been invited guests at his disastrous soiree - and Obadiah considers
it will be amusing for them to watch as Toby prepares his former master for
his new slavery. Toby will trim and shave Andy's body of all his body hair
and when he is slave smooth, Obadiah will order his new slave to kneel
before him as he fits him with his neck torc and genital jewellery and ties
a satin ribbon in his hair to match the one worn by Toby.

Then as the centrepiece for the night's entertainment, Obadiah has
organised an erotic tableau where he'll order Toby to fuck Andy. That
should prove a delightful diversion as he and his guests enjoy their
dessert and drink their coffee.

Indeed, it will be a sight to savour as the slave Toby fucks his former
Master. Obadiah chuckles at the thought of Andy's ultimate humiliation.

Then, tomorrow morning, he'll take both slaves to pick up his new sedan
chair. He is excited at the prospect of having Andy and Toby carry him home
for the very first time.

But before that, he has one other important chore for them to
perform. First thing tomorrow morning, he'll have both slaves carry Antonio
Varo's wrestlers into the front foyer of his home and mount it on the
marble plinth he'd specially commissioned as its permanent home. There, it
will serve as a constant torment to his new slave Andy of his stupidity in
selling his devoted slave, Toby and also as a sad reminder of the life he'd
once enjoyed but had lost so recklessly.

Obadiah has been very fortunate! He'd cannily negotiated with Andrew
Trevorrow's creditors to buy the statue for a fraction of the price that
Andrew had paid for it.

Smugly, he congratulates himself on his astuteness in acquiring both the
statue and its former owner who must now serve him as a slave.

Yes indeed, life is good and Obadiah savours the moment.  His rotund belly
quakes with his mirth as he thinks on this.  Then reaching out to the young
slave lying at his side he seeks relaxation as he leisurely toys with two
very lively 'worry beads'.


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