The newly enslaved Lucien - now named Rafe - is forced to strip naked in front of the spectators in the courtroom.
Changed Circumstances - Chapter 3: `Public Exposure'
by Chrisus
Series: Changed Circumstances
I stand defeated as the guard unfastens my wrists from behind my back. If I was able to look into a mirror right at this moment, I doubt I'd recognise myself. Gone is the self-assurance, the pride and the arrogance that were the hallmarks of the rich young Lucien Barrios. Staring back at me with his frightened eyes would be the bewildered and confused image of the new slave, Rafe. For that is who I am. No longer free and in charge of my life, I'm now the slave of my distant relative, Guy Maratier. Although we are related by the same blood of the formerly illustrious Barrois family, mine is tainted by the blood of some slave woman whereas his is "pure" and this enables him to assume the life I have lead up to this moment.
I tremble from my mixed emotions and can't yet make sense of all that is happening to me. In less than hour, I'd gone from being the richest man in the city to becoming a slave. That alone is more than enough for my confused mind to cope with. As yet I haven't thought beyond that fact, but now I'm to remove my clothing and reveal my slave nakedness to these excited spectators who watch with a voyeuristic eagerness. The shame of this is uppermost in my mind and as yet I don't think about my imminent branding and collaring.
Suddenly, I vainly roar out my anger, fear and frustration through my gag. My "audience" laughs at my distress and my obvious suffering whets their appetites. Not yet satisfied, they want more from me. How they enjoy watching as the "mighty fall". In the pettiness of their mediocre existences they like nothing better than to watch as another "tall poppy" falls beneath the scythe of their spitefulness. And I am - or is that was - the tallest poppy in the city.
From deep within my being, I dredge up a newly-found hatred of the Barrois family. My whole life to date has been a lie and a fraud. Instead of the true son and grandson of the Barrois family, I am slave progeny born out of a master's lustful use of his slave. As my "father" Henri thrust into the slave woman, Ophelia did he give any thought to the consequences of his coupling; as he roared out his fulfilment did he even care? What were the initial re-actions of his family to my inconvenient conception?
I know they sold the unfortunate Ophelia. But they must have waited until after she gave birth to me before doing so. But why did they do this? Why had they held onto me and fraudulently present me as their legitimate heir? What were their motives? I have only the vaguest memories of my father, Henri but I do know my grandparents had loved me - indeed I was the focus of their lives. Why then had they never manumitted me? Didn't they foresee the consequences of not doing so? These are questions that are to torture me throughout the long, dark years of my new slavery.
As the progeny of a slave, wouldn't it have been kinder to allow me to remain a slave? Undoubtedly my existence as a slave would have been hard and difficult. But at least I wouldn't have aspired to any other life; I would have had a slave's unquestioning acceptance of his lot. But what the Barrois family had done was to fraudulently "present" me as their heir and allow me to live a life of privilege to which I wasn't entitled. To have lived that life and to now have it torn away from me is unimaginably cruel. Tears of bitterness and regret sting my eyes and a silent sob catches in my throat.
"START UNDRESSING, BOY! AND BE QUICK ABOUT IT!"
The harshness of the guards' barked command jerks me back to the here and now. I'm shocked by the note of authority in his voice. No one has ever spoken to me in such a manner and I'm unprepared for it.
Panic-stricken, I look around the court-room. Desperately, I seek out a friendly face before realising there isn't anyone in this room who feels sympathy for my unexpected fall from grace. I'm now a pariah - a slave who masqueraded as a freeman. It doesn't matter that I did this unknowingly. Such a situation is intolerable and strikes at the very fabric of their society. The fact that a slave has "lorded" it over them, as I had done, is one they deeply resent and they now take infinite delight in my humiliation. Eagerly, they crane forward in anticipation of my disrobing.
"UNDRESS! NOW! MOVE YOURSELF!"
Trembling, I begin to unbutton my jacket.
"Bailiff! It may be necessary to encourage the slave." Judge Matthews interrupts. "You have the court's permission for the guards to use their canes and straps to hurry him along. But confine them to his shoulders, back and thighs. Don't mark his buttocks. They're to be left unmarked for the branding Iron."
"Thank you, Your Honour."
My gag muffles my shocked yelp as a guard's cane cuts across the back of my thighs. The material of my slacks lessens the cane's impact but still my flesh stings from the sudden pain. Once more I feel the cut of the cane and I'm ordered to,
"HURRY UP! BOY. WE DON'T HAVE ALL DAY TO WAIT ON YOU!"
Again I cry out through my gag, more in shame than pain, and my discomfort is cause for laughter from the public gallery.
Hastily, I slip my jacket from my body and look around for somewhere to place it. Normally, I'm dressed and undressed by my body slave and this would have been done for me. Now I stand bewildered and I look to the bailiff for direction. Impatiently he indicates that I should place it on an adjacent table. As I do so, I once more feel the bite of the cane and I'm admonished by the bailiff.
"Not like that, slave. Fold it neatly before you place it on the table. Really, you'll need to learn to treat your master's property with greater respect. Now fold it neatly, place it on the table and then remove your shirt."
The irony of his words isn't lost on me. As he has just pointed out to me, the clothes I'm wearing are no longer mine - they now belong to my new master. Absurdly, I wonder if I'll ever wear clothes again and suppose I won't. The natural state for a slave is total nakedness although some masters do allow their slaves to wear loin-cloths. I wonder if my new master will grant me this privilege. I doubt it very much; after all, I never allowed my slaves to do so. My personal preference for all my slaves was always complete nudity.
Quickly, I fold the jacket and place it on the table. The bailiff inspects it and is satisfied; he instructs me to remove my shirt.
I unbutton my shirt and slip it off my upper body. As I do so, I hear appreciative murmurs rippling through the court-room. I'm not ashamed of my body, in fact just the opposite. I don't number conceit among my faults and so I don't hesitate to describe myself as "impressive". In my self-assessment, I know that I've been blessed with good-looks and a body that sets me apart. I am naturally tall, approaching two metres in height and I weigh approximately eighty-one kilograms. I have longish, slightly curling, golden blond hair and blue eyes that have been described as cornflower blue. I have an aquiline nose - often sneeringly described by those critical of me as "aristocratic" - and I possess full red lips.
I have broad, powerful shoulders and my back tapers down to a narrow waist. The hard slabs of my pectorals give emphasis to my strong, muscular chest and these, in turn, are highlighted by two very prominent nipples surrounded by their coin sized aureoles. Nestled at the centre of my clearly defined stomach muscles is my deeply indented navel. My chest has a covering of hair that matches that of my head and straggling down the centre line of by belly is a treasure-trail of slightly darker hair. As it disappears beneath the waistband of my slacks, it tantalisingly hints at what is hidden there.
As I neatly fold the shirt and place it alongside the jacket, I'm acutely aware of the play of my muscles as they ripple and flex with my movements. And I'm aware that all eyes are on me and that my naked torso is the focus of their attention. I have never hesitated to bare my body - at the gym or when swimming - and as I said, I take pride in it. But always, when I did so, it was as a decision of mine. This however is different. The choice is no longer mine. Now I'm ordered to do it and to encourage me I feel the excruciating pain of a guard's leather strap as he applies it to my back to hurry me along.
I feel the helplessness of my situation and wishing to avoid any further punishment, I quickly remove my shoes and socks. I don't wear underpants and now only the slacks separate me from my enforced total nakedness.
Apparently, I have hesitated too long. I cry out through my gag in agonised pain as the guard's leather strap wraps itself around my exposed shoulders. I scramble to comply and quickly remove my belt before unzipping my fly and allowing the trousers to slide down my legs to gather in a crumpled heap around my ankles. I feel the hot flush of shame wash over my nude body as I listen to the gasps of the onlookers. I'm temporarily blinded by the "popping" of the camera flashes. My very public shaming has been recorded for posterity. Tomorrow, these pictures will be shared with the wider community as the story of my fraud and exposure are published in the press to an outraged public.
I step out of the slacks and bend to retrieve them. Humiliatingly, I'm aware that my bare arse is now displayed for all to gaze upon. And as I bend, I'm acutely aware that my balls are hanging between my splayed legs and that the most private part of my body - my anus - is "open to the public". Acting to avoid the strap - how quickly we slaves learn the lessons of obedience - I retrieve the trousers and folding them neatly I place them alongside the other clothing. Now I wait for further direction from the bailiff.
"Face His Honour. Put your hands on your head and spread your legs." I hasten to obey the bailiff's command.
Once I'm in position, a guard kicks my ankles further apart and exposes my body ready for the judge's visual inspection. I lower my eyes to the floor - I know this is expected of a slave and how many times have I chastised one of my own slaves for his failure to do so. I sense rather than see that Judge Matthews leans forward and peers down at me from the exalted height of his judicial bench.
Trembling, I wait as he scrutinises my naked body. As my breathing quickens, my chest rises and falls and I feel my belly nervously bellowing in and out, I recall Norge's similar discomfort and I think of him waiting patiently for my return. He waits vainly for a master who is no longer his master but is now a slave like him. At the time of his enslavement did he feel as I do now? Did he feel the degradation, the powerlessness and the terror I now feel? In my self-absorption, I'd never considered a slave's thoughts or feelings; indeed I'd never ascribed any emotions to a slave.
Now in my own misery and despair, I come to the late realisation that a slave does "feel"- that his emotions, like his body, are capable of deep suffering. But, I'm to learn that my feelings will be of absolutely no significance to my new master. He'll treat me with the same contempt and disdain that has always been the hallmark of my dealings with my former slaves.
I blush as I feel Judge Matthews's eyes burn into me. Under his penetrating gaze, I feel my scrotum shrivel and my balls retract into the safe haven of my groin. My cock- head retreats into the protection of its prepuce and my diminished penis seeks to hide itself in the luxurious abundance of my pubic bush. Still, he hasn't finished with me. He orders me to "turn around and face the public gallery."
As I face them, these nonentities who are now my betters lean forward and lick their lips lasciviously. I hear their sniggers and cringe at the crude, ribald comments they make about me. I hear one comment that "the slave's got a small dick, hasn't he?" which is the cause of much laughter. My face burns with my shame.
I know I haven't any reason to be ashamed of my package. Under normal conditions, my balls hang low and heavy in my scrotum and my thick, uncircumcised cock rests confidently on top of them. But these aren't normal conditions and my distress causes them to appear "shrivelled" and miniscule. As they survey me and comment on me, I weep for my predicament and for my uncertain future.
All the while, Judge Matthews's eyes travel slowly down my back before finally coming to rest at the full, rounded curves of my arse. My body quakes with the intensity of my emotions and I feel the quivering of my flanks. Then he orders me "bend and spread".
Crimson-faced, I ask myself - how many times have I commanded a slave to adopt this most humiliating position? Again, on those occasions, I'd never thought about the slave's feelings; it is normal for a master to routinely subject his slave to such an inspection. Now circumstances have changed and it is I who must now submit without question. Fearing the strap, I hasten to obey.
After I bend at the waist, I reach back behind my body and taking a firm buttock in each hand I pull them apart. Again my experience with my own slaves tells me I what I must do. As the cleft between my buttocks widens, I feel the tension on my arse-hole and I'm aware that the bright pink rosebud of my sphincter is opening and closing in time with my rapid heartbeats.
How long do I remain in this most degrading of positions? Perhaps seconds or possibly minutes - I don't know? I'm to learn all too soon that time is something a slave doesn't need be concerned with. Everything he does is at the whim of his master and for a slave only his master controls time.
Strangely, the longer I remain doubled over the more detached from reality I become. My mind is now a blank, my sense of shame lessens, I no longer hear the taunts and jibes from the public gallery and my awareness of them diminishes. Gradually, I have become impervious to everything around me. Eventually, I'm to discover that this indifference is a phenomenon that allows a slave to emotionally cope with the indignities heaped upon him. I will have much need of it in the coming days.
Then Judge Matthews abruptly orders me to "face the bench and display." Once more, my past experience with my own slaves stands me in good stead - I know exactly what is required of me.
I smartly snap to attention and draw my body to its full height, move my feet apart to the required forty-five centimetres and entwine my fingers behind my head. Then, pushing back against my elbows, I thrust out my chest, suck in my belly and tightly clench my buttocks. Finally, I push my hips forward in a silent invitation to inspect my genitals. My head bowed in submission, I listen to the appreciative murmurings of the watching public. In response, I tighten my body to better display myself. I know this is expected of me and as anxious as I am to avoid the guard's strap, I meet their expectations; the tautness of my body now highlights my hard musculature to perfection.
Now I stand at the centre of their attention; all eyes are focused on me. With my eyes lowered to the floor I can't see them but I hear their mutterings of approval and their comments of praise for such a fine slave. This is my brief moment of glory - the same one "enjoyed" by all slaves as they stand solitary and are scrutinised by an appreciative master or a gathering of freemen.
Then, to my horror I feel the first stirrings of an impending erection. My scrotum relaxes allowing my balls to descend from the protection of my groin and against my will I feel the slow thickening and lengthening of my penis. Desperately, I fight to stave off this ultimate humiliation. But my efforts are in vain. My "audience "is quick to note my predicament and look on delightedly. Even Judge Matthew is moved to humour.
"Ah! Mr Maratier, it would appear that your new slave is to give us a working display of his vitality; a sure sign that he is `alive'. A kind gesture on his part, wouldn't you say? It augers well should you wish to breed him"
He basks in the loud laughter resulting from his demeaning comments about me. For my part, I feel a crimson blush of shame once more wash over me.
Insidiously, my cock continues its betrayal of me. Unable to control it, I stand helplessly as the foreskin retreats back along the shaft allowing the cock-head to overcome its shyness and to brazenly greet the onlookers who jeer at my very public embarrassment. Now with a will of its own, my cock stands at right-angles to my belly and points towards them with signpost rigidity. In my mortification, I experience the intensity of its throbbing and feel the first tiny sparks of pleasure as my pre-cum dribbles out. Once more, His Honour feels moved to comment.
"Mr Maratier. Allow me to congratulate you on the quality of your new slave. A fine specimen -yes indeed, he's a fine specimen. He's a truly magnificent piece of slave-flesh and I would think he'll be eagerly bargained for should you choose to send him to auction. If this should happen, then rest assured I'll be there putting in my bid for him. Is this a possibility, Mr Maratier? Will you ever sell him?"
"Thank you for your kind comments, Your Honour." My new master acknowledges the judge's compliments. "I'm not yet sure about the slave's future. In the short term, it's my intention to keep him but ultimately I think I will sell him, but not yet. However, when that time comes, I'll make sure you hear about it before anyone else."
"Thank you, Mr Maratier. I would appreciate it if you keep me in mind when selling him. As I said I will be a keen bidder. And now, permit me to comment. The slave's perfection is marred by his glaringly white midriff; a minor detail I concede, but nevertheless one that detracts from his overall appearance."
I blush at the judge's words. He is referring to the whiteness of my arse which stands in sharp contrast to the deep tan of my upper body and legs. As a free man I would NEVER have exposed that part of my body to the sun; white buttocks are strictly the preserve of the free man- the badge of freedom if you like. Whereas an all-over body tan, along with the brand and collar are the hallmarks of slavery and one studiously avoided by all free men.
"Again thank you for your comments, Your Honour." Guy replies. "Rest assured, that's a situation that will soon be corrected. Most likely I'll put the slave to some hard labour to harden him up, possibly at my plantation, La For坱. I'm sure a few weeks exposure to the sun in a labour gang will soon `darken' him."
"I'm pleased to hear it, Mr Maratier."
I recoil in horror at my master's words. His plans fill me with trepidation. I know only too well what awaits me at La For坱 - unrelentingly, backbreaking labour under the broiling sun for twelve to fourteen hours a day and with my back continually bent and exposed to the overseers' cruel whips.
This prospect is too much for me. I collapse sobbing to the floor and the popping of the cameras tells me my misery is being photographed. They continue to flash as the guards lash my upper body with their straps and order me to my feet. And even as the guards lash me, I hear the ripple of conversation that my "outburst" has provoked. Once on my feet, I'm ordered to resume the display position.
Once I've settled down, Judge Matthews commences his closing statements. These are delivered with self-congratulatory pomposity.
"In bringing these proceedings to a close permit me to say how personally gratifying I've found them to be and how pleased I am with the outcome. It has been my privilege and indeed, pleasure to restore Mr Guy Maratier, an honourable and upright young man, to his rightful inheritance and place in society. I regret very much the cruel injustice that sought to deprive him of his birthright and the evil machinations that saw him replaced with an imposter and a slave. That I've been able to personally rectify this situation is one of the high points of my career as a judge of this court. And as a legal man, I have had great satisfaction in revealing the true identity of the slave now known as Rafe and reducing him to his true station in life - that of a slave and owned property."
I listen as the judge's words fall on sympathetic ears and the court erupts into loud applause. There isn't any doubt that the sympathies of the crowd lie with my master, Guy Maratier. Towards me they feel only outraged hostility. His Honour graciously waits for the tumult to die down before continuing.
"Mr Maratier this court congratulates you and wishes you well in your new life. Let me give you a word of `fatherly' advice - `Choose your friends well and use your new-found wealth wisely'. And remember, should you encounter any difficulties in asserting your authority over any of Barrois enterprise then this court and Mr Simon Barrow stand ready to assist you. So please don't hesitate to call on Mr Barrow or the resources of this court. We stand ready to support you."
Once more his words are greeted with applause. Then facing me, he sternly delivers a long lecture for my benefit. The court-room is stilled as the public listen in hushed silence to Judge Matthews's advice to me.
"Rafe, in your case, justice has also been done. You have now been returned to the true status of your birth which is that of a slave. Your circumstances are unusual in that, even though you were born a slave, regrettably, you've never lived as one - that has now been rectified by me. I accept that the blame for this deception lies not with you but with the Barrois family - father and son. Nevertheless, the fact that you were allowed to live as a free man while you were in fact a slave is deplorable and unacceptable in our society. Therefore your sudden return to slavery is inevitable and can be seen as a punishment for their crimes. You unfortunately are to pay a high price for it. Having lived the privileged life as the Barrois heir your relegation back to slavery is no doubt a bitter pill for you to swallow. Buy my advice to you is to put your former life behind you, to forget it and to apply yourself wholeheartedly to being a good slave to your master. I remind you that slaves are required by law to serve their masters diligently and faithfully, always to be loyal, obedient and subservient. This is what the law expects of you and that is what you must now do; so serve your master, Mr Guy Maratier well. And remember your master has all the rights and privileges of ownership over you. You, as his slave have none! Shortly you`ll be taken from here for registration and examination preparatory to a `Document of Ownership' being issued for you to your master, Then, as mandated by law, you`ll be taken to the blacksmith for immediate branding and the fitting of your slave collar.."
I reel back at the impact of his words; the word branding fills me with terror and I cry out
"NO! PLEASE!"
His Honour ignores my plea and simply announces "This court now stands adjourned."
As he leaves the court-room, the public give Judge Clarence J Matthews a standing ovation. His judgement has won universal approval.
Now, as the guards grab hold of me, I struggle in a futile effort to break free and plead with them for non-existent mercy. Brutally, they wrestle with me and drag me kicking and screaming from the court to begin my transition into a slave. As they do so, I see my master is surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers all eager to ingratiate themselves with the new heir to the Barrois estate.
Guy Maratier watches as I'm dragged away, and catching my eye, he smiles at me maliciously; his eyes are full of hatred and malevolence. Instinctively, I now know my new master is to make my life as his slave unbearable.