Sailor, Beware! by Etienne

Page 1:

 I am a long time fan of the fabulous works of Etienne whose drawings and their descriptions are legendary. This epic series in particular is one of my favourites as I know it to be with so many others of our genre. Most of us, at one time or another, have fantasied about being kidnapped and sold into slavery in the Middle East. And I know from posts to other places that this theme of sailors, soldiers or oilfield workers being enslaved is a popular one. 

Obviously, Etienne knew this and this work reflects his understanding of what motivates the "slave mentality" so many of us enjoy. 

Please enjoy the series as we imagine ourselves as either Cal or Jake.

 Tor

Slaves of this quality are a rarity and they are seldom offered for sale. When they are however, they elicit great interest among the richest and most discerning of buyers.

And Tor is no exception to this. Seldom does the slave-brokerage of Skank and Dreyfus have the honour to offer such an exceptional slave among their offerings.

Tor, as can be seen from his Nordic looks, is a Norwegian snatched from the streets of Oslo and spirited away into chattel slavery.

We at Skank and Dreyfus were given the task of selling this most marketable of slaves and we spared no expense in promoting him to our exclusive and wealthiest clients in Africa and the Middle East. 

Here, we see agents at a "online auction" who are acting for these overseas buyers bidding for Tor. And we are overwhelmed by the amount of money the buyers are prepared to spend to own this fine slave. Naturally, we are delighted by the response and we are doing our best to drive the bids higher. After all, it is in our interests to do so; the higher the price the slave fetches the greater our commission.

Bidding for the slave was feverish with buyers outbidding one another but eventually Tor was sold to a client in the Middle East who seems to have inexhaustible funds at his disposal.

Normally we are unconcerned what happens to a slave once it s sold and leaves our premises. However, the small fortune paid by the buyer for Tor aroused our curiosity and we did make inquiries as to Tor's future role as a slave in the Middle East.

We found out his new owner is the owner of many plantations and farms who has a penchant for blond, blue-eyed Caucasian slaves and Tor meets his criteria.

Our understanding is that Tor will be trained as a "human pony" and used as such by his new master.

Among his master's many properties is a highly regarded slave-breeding farm started by the buyer's grandfather and given over to the exclusive breeding of blond, blue-eyed slaves such as Tor for the well-established slave-markets of the Middle East and the emerging ones in a resurgent Africa where the ownership of slaves, such as Tor is considered "de riguer" and the ultimate status symbol. We subsequently, learnt that Tor will also be used for stud purposes at the farm. Undoubtedly, Tor will rise to the task and add enormously to the genetic pool of the stud-farm. 

We here at Skank and Dreyfus wish our Middle Eastern client every success in his breeding programme to which Tor will contribute most admirably.

Picture found on internet; source unknown. Text is Chris' work collated and posted by me.     Nathaniel

 By chance, I found this drawing on the internet by an artist named Mitchell whose works were previously unknown to me. I have since discovered he has a site at "mitchmen-the blog" and it is well worth a visit if you don't already know of it.

I genuinely love black and white drawings by such artists as Etienne, Cavelo and my good friend Pote. For me such drawings are intimate and show the the innermost feelings of the artist. Usually, they are erotic - something that appeals to me - and this one in particular had immediate appeal. 

It played to my "slave consciousness" and i quickly saw myself as the slave as portrayed. To be truthful, this is how i always visualise my slavery, near naked except for a brief loin cloth, collared and shackled and made to work under the lash.

While, i find total slave nakedness appealing, i also love loincloths and cinctures not because of any modesty on my part. Rather the opposite is true. The partial covering of the genitals draws attention to the slave's body and leaves something to the imagination. i often wear a brief covering similar to the one shown in the drawing.

Therefore, i see myself as the slave toiling in his Master's field; however obviously not to the satisfaction of the overseer who has uncurled his cruel whip and s aiming it at my unprotected back.

Unsuspecting, i will soon hear the ominous swish and whine of the whip and hear the loud resounding crack of raw leather cutting into naked flesh - my flesh. As the lash curls itself around my torso leaving an angry red stripe, i will feel the excruciating pain and hear my cry of startled pain. And i will bend my back lower and work harder to avoid a repeat.

This my slave fantasy fed to me by this drawing by Mitchell.

The Royal Slave

Part 2

Written by Jean-Christophe

 Part 2: The Palace Coup

As we return to the royal palace, the day is drawing to its inevitable close. As the sun sinks slowly behind the highest mountain peaks it cast long shadows across the hills and valleys surrounding the city. In the fields, slaves, already exhausted after a day of back-breaking labour are being cruelly exhorted by their whipmasters to work harder in one final burst of energy before they are marched away and chained in their stables for the night.

As we approach, the gleaming white marble of the royal compound is suffused in the golden glow of the setting sun’s last rays and presents a pleasing sight. After a day of hunting wild animals and fucking acquiescent slaves, I for one, look forward to bathing and dressing before joining my father and brother for our evening meal together.

This morning, bored as usual, I had decided on a day of hunting with my closest palace companions in the nearby forests. We’d set out early, accompanied by a retinue of male slaves to act as beaters and bearers and to dress whatever game we killed and then to carry it back to the royal kitchens. We had been moderately successful and several deer, wild boars and various other smaller animals and birds fell victims to our arrows and spears. Over the next few days, they are destined for the roasting-spits and cooking-pots of the royal kitchens.

As is usual with such hunts it wasn’t only the animal prey, we were interested in. Of more attraction was the “semi-human prey” who accompanied us. These were especially attractive, young male slaves – chosen by me – because of their physical agility, good looks and muscular physiques as well as their sensuous lips, deep throats and pert, tight arses which gave promise of much sport. At a given time, usually after we’d eaten our mid-day meal, these prey slaves had tinkling bells attached to their collars and cock-rings and were sent into the surrounding forest where they scattered in all directions. After a period of time the slave-hunt began as our slave bearers followed them beating drums and cymbals to drive the prey from the tree cover into open ground where I and my companions with nets and ropes ready to take them as “trophies”.

Upon capture, the slaves were bound hand and foot and carried back to our camp suspended by their wrists and ankles on long poles carried on the shoulders of our bearers much like the carcasses of our wild prey. Naturally, once we’d returned to our base camp, we claimed our reward for a successful hunt and the prey slaves were enthusiastically fucked.

Altogether, it had been a most enjoyable day but now, tired and grimy from the hunt, I am ready to return to the palace.

The palace compound lies on the northern fringe of the city and as we approach, I notice the streets are virtually deserted with most shops and market-stalls shuttered. This puzzles me; usually at this time they are hives of activity as the merchants close up shop and prepare for another cold nigh indoors.

Approaching the palace, I notice nothing amiss. The royal standard flutters in the breeze, the gates into the palace are guarded and as is customary my uncle’s soldiers patrol the wall perimeter.

However, as we enter into the stable court-yard, The duty guards appear indifferent and don’t offer me the royal salute due to me as the king’s son. Instead, they ignore me and close the heavy, wooden gates behind my party. I am angered by this show of disrespect and vow to have the sentries flogged.

Sitting astride my horse, I wait for a naked stable slave to hurry forward and to crouch on all fours offering is back as a dismounting stool as is usual protocol for member of the royal family. Disconcerted, I wait in vain and for the first time I become concerned. Obviously, something is wrong and I don’t know what.

Suddenly, the captain of the guard accompanied by two burly soldiers approaches me and perfunctorily orders me to dismount. His tone lacks the respect I am accustomed to as a royal prince and I refuse to do as he orders.

I don’t see the furtive nod of the captain’ head but both guards move swiftly and drag me from my saddle. Now I feel fear; an emotion totally unknown to me as no man has ever dared laid his hands upon my royal body unless I have allowed it as part of my sexual encounters. My body has been violated and my royal dignity impugned. This is tantamount to treason punishable by death and I vow that tomorrow they will lose their heads. Even my noble companions gasp in shock and murmur among themselves.

Before I have a chance to protest, the guard captain speaks.

“By orders of the Royal Council of the King’s Advisors, I have orders to detain you. You will come with me and offer no resistance!”

Momentarily, I am disconcerted. However, I soon regain my composure and in my most authoritative voice, I demand the captain to

“Take me to the King. NOW!!!”

In the background my companions are talking loudly among themselves no doubt as confused as I am by this unprecedented turn of events. I can only assume that the king’s advisors – at least those who have spoken derogatively of me in the past – have made another complaint against me and I am being called to explain. Of course, I don’t know the nature of their complaint but I will defend myself in the presence of my father the king.

The captain ignores my command; instead, he addresses my companions.

“I speak with the authority of the King’s Council and my advice to you young noblemen would be to dismount and return immediately to your quarters. Your parents are no doubt anxious for your return and they will give you an explanation of today’s events. You may leave your horses to be unsaddled, groomed and fed by the stable slaves who will also take your kills to the kitchens. Now please dismount and return to your parents.”

My companions take the captain’s advice and dismount from their horses and disperse to their quarters in the palace. They mutter quietly among themselves and no doubt they are as non-plussed as I am with this turn of events. My mind is in turmoil but I tell myself all will be well when I am given the chance to speak to my father, the king.

The captain calls for stable slaves to come and take charge of the horses and return them to the stables. Then, he indicates that I am to follow him into the palace precincts. We are at the rear of the vast palace complex – the area where the kitchens and their ancillary storerooms are located together with the overnight slave-quarters – while the royal chambers and state-rooms are at the front of the palace overlooking the vast ceremonial square immediately in front of it and beyond it into the city itself.

I expected that I would be taken to an audience with the king and my accusers but instead the captain takes me into a part of the palace I am unfamiliar with and seldom visit. We pass by the kitchens and I catch a glimpse of numerous, sweat-glistening slaves busily preparing tonight’s meals. I feel the furnace like heat fuelled by the numerous ovens and open spits and note the wretched slaves working under the canes and quirts of their overseers. We continue past the slaves’ sleeping quarters with its straw-strewn, cobblestoned floor and finally pass a sinister room euphemistically called “The Room of Truth” but in reality, it is the palace’s torture chamber with its grim collection of implements of persuasion and coercion.

We move further down into the bowels of the palace; I am half-dragged, half-hustled along darkened passageways and down several flights of well-worn stone steps. Here, there are no windows and no natural light. The air is rank and the darkness is all encompassing and only relieved by an occasional torch spluttering in a cast-iron sconce attached to the damp walls. The flickering flames of the torches cast an eerie orange glow amid the blackness and emphasises the sinister feel of this place. Why am I being brought here?

Suddenly, I am afraid; very afraid!

Finally, we enter a chamber surrounded by several dungeons and I am given into the charge of a gaoler and his assistants.

The captain tells the gaoler that I am to be locked in the same cell as “the other prisoner” and that no harm is to come me. Then he watches as the gaoler’s assistants prepare me for my imprisonment. Moving swiftly – obviously they are experts at this – as the captain’s soldiers hold me firmly in their grasp, the gaoler’s assistants use their knives to cut away my clothing. I protest and try to struggle all to no avail. Soon, I am as naked as any palace slave with the shredded remnants of my garments hanging in tatters from my body. Then comes the final indignity as a collar is placed around my neck and my wrists and ankles re shackled.

The gaoler unlocks a cell door and I am ceremonially dragged into its dark interior. By now I am in a state of shock and offer no resistance as I am seated against a wall and chained into place. Later, I will find my movements are restricted to standing, squatting or sitting. My fetters allow me the minimum of movement.

The gaolers leave and as the heavy wooden door slams shut, I am left in the gloom of the unlit dungeon’s interior. So great is my terror, that all of a sudden, I begin to tremble uncontrollably and I vomit violently.

Eventually my vomiting stops - but not my trembling - and as my eyes adjust to the cell’s gloom, I realise I am not alone. Against the opposite wall another naked prisoner sits in chains with his shoulders hunched forward, his head between his knees and his body wracked by uncontrollable sobbing.

It takes me several minutes to regain some of my composure before I speak to my fellow prisoner.

“Hello!” I greet him and then ask the obvious question. “Do you know why we are here?”

The sound of my voice startles him and he asks

“Sanjay, is that you?”

He raises his head and looks at me and to my horror, I recognise the prisoner is my older brother, Pradhi. Like me he is as naked as the day our mother gave birth to us and in chains.

“Pradhi, yes, it is me, Sanjay. But please tell me what is happening to us. Why are we imprisoned?”

Once more, Pradhi begins to weep and I wait impatiently for him to answer. Finally, he recovers his composure. He looks directly at me and I note his tear-stained face and eyes reddened and swollen from his weeping. My own anxiety level is approaching breaking point and I grow impatient for Pradhi’s answer. However, I am unprepared for what he tells me and it shocks me to the core of my being.

Finally, through his sobs, he blurts out

“Sanjay, our father ….” he hesitates and is wracked once more with his weeping before blurting out, “…… our father, the king is dead.”

His words hit me like a sledgehammer and momentarily, I am left speechless as his words register with me. Did I hear correct? Did Pradhi just tell me that our father, the king of our nation is dead? In my disbelief, I simply ask

“Do you speak the truth? How did our father die.?”

“Our father died suddenly and unexpectedly this morning at a meeting with some of his ministers. He complained of a chest pain and collapsed. The royal physician hurried to the scene but on arrival, he declared our father had died of a sudden heart attach and that death was immediate.”

I struggle to comprehend this. My father had been aged in his mid-forties, strong, healthy and with the promise of many more years of life before him. I cursed the capriciousness of the gods who’d cut short his life. Then, the realisation that Pradhi is now king by birthright registers.  But if this is so, why is he – like me – naked and in chains incarcerated in a dungeon deep with the bowels of the palace. That is my next question.

Pradhi is short of detail on what followed and can only tell me the facts as he knows them. After the king’s sudden and unexpected death, pandemonium reigned within the palace until the Lord Chamberlain took control and wrote the proclamation of the king’s sudden passing to be posted on the palace gates. At the same time, he wrote the edict declaring that Crown Prince Pradhi was now our new king but before he had a chance to act on these, a group of nobles and advisors to the late king stage a “palace coup”. They detained the chamberlain and confined him to his quarters as they moved swiftly to take control.

Pradhi first learnt about the coup when he was arrested and escorted to the dungeon where we are both imprisoned. Other than that, he knows of no other details about the coup and we are left wondering what is happening.

Suddenly, I am very afraid for both our sakes. It would appear that my brother’s throne is being usurped but by whom and for what purpose is unclear. This leaves us in the most precarious of situations and I fear for our lives.

 

To be continued …………..

 

 Newly captured Africans taken as slaves!

This is another short story written by Chris some years ago and I am not sure if he ever posted it. I questioned him about this story and he tells me it is a purely a work of fiction and that he has never visited West Africa but has been to former slave-markets in Portugal, South Africa and other places.

His reason for writing it? Because of hs strong views on the evils of chattel slavery and its impact on real slaves throughout history. Slavery was no respecter of people regardless of race or creed and anyone could become a slave. However, Chris believes the nearest we can relate to slavery is through the relatively recent Atlantic Slave Trade and its impact on black people today. Having regard for the feelings of his black readers, he seldom mentions black slavery.

However, as a 'slave of colour" (SOC) it does resonate with me on a very personal level and although I have never visited any slave museum, Chris' words affect me.

I have Chris' permission to post this here.

Nathaniel (nate)

“THE MUSEUM VISIT” 

This fictional, short story refers to historic African slavery. If the subject distresses you then you should read no further…… Chris

 Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris):  May, 2012

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

 Summer, 2012 

Perhaps it wasn’t the best move on my part to visit the museum. I’d gone there with the hope of discovering some hitherto unknown aspects of my family’s history and instead I am confronted by the museum and its exhibits.  I am overwhelmed by the museum’s violent history and the sheer horror of the place. 

The museum of which I speak is housed in a former slave-factory on the west coast of Africa. Today it is set-up as a museum and educational facility to enlighten current and future generations about that aspect of our black history which still disturbs and angers many people. 

So, why am I here? 

I am a black man, aged nineteen and until recently, I knew almost nothing about my family’s history. True, I knew I was the descendant of black Africans brought to these Caribbean islands and sold as slaves to labour on the white men’s plantations. But isn’t this true of most black people in our region of the world? 

My parents wore the twin badges of their shame; namely that they are black and secondly, the colour of their skin declares them to be of slave descent.  Whenever, they spoke of our family’s past, it was always in the vaguest of terms and never elaborated upon. 

Consequently, I knew nothing of my family beyond those members still living and it was as though nobody existed before them. Any of my questions regarding our ancestors were actively discouraged and only ever superficially answered. I soon learned such questions were not welcomed and consequently, so much has remained unasked and unanswered. 

It stayed this way until about two years ago when I and my fellow students, as part of my school studies, were assigned the tasks of researching and recording our families’ histories. 

I received no support from my parents in this and indeed I was told to. 

“Leave it alone! No good comes from digging up the past. Best leave things as they be!” 

At first, this discouraged me, but as I listened to the progress reports of my class-mates, I became caught up in their enthusiasm and I resolved to research my own ancestral roots. I was convinced that there was a ‘skeleton in the family’s closet’ – perhaps a convict or worse – but I am modern in my outlook and I knew that I could cope with anything that I unearthed. How wrong I was in thinking that. 

I spent many hours sitting at my computer and researching my family roots. Fortunately, our government has spent large sums of money in collecting and collating much information about our nation’s unhappy history of slavery. 

These archives cover several centuries and record the names of all the white planters who lived on my Caribbean island home.  It gives the names and acreages of each plantation as well as the number of slaves who worked them. And this proved to be a valuable resource for me in establishing who I am. 

Painstakingly, I researched, often at night, when my parents were either watching television or were asleep. I respected their wish that I not pester them with questions which obviously distresses them. But my need to know my own roots overrode my concerns for their wish to 

“Best leave things as they be.” 

Gradually, I built up a dossier on my African ancestors and even though the records were sketchy, I did learn that I am the descendant of an African slave imported to these islands in the eighteen century from the Fortress of São Jorge da Mina built by the Portuguese in 1482 but commonly referred to as Elmina – ‘the mine’. 

My need to ‘know’ more about my ancestral roots has brought me to West Africa and I’d come here despite my parents’ protestations. And in coming here, I’d used up my precious savings accumulated over several years of part-time work. 

Do I regret coming? In one aspect I do. I’d built up a mental picture of my slave ancestors which I thought would prepare me for the horrors of Elmina. But I was wrong! Nothing can prepare you for the true inhumanity of this dreadful place. 

As I walked through the factory, I was overwhelmed with a sense of profound sadness as I thought about the suffering endured over the centuries by those countless thousands of black men, women and children who’d paused here on their journeys from the African interior into slavery in the white man’s “New World”. 

As I peered through the bars into tiny holding cells, I visualised the overcrowding and the seething mass of naked humanity who waited in despair – some times for months - for the arrival of a slave ship to carry them into cruel captivity in strange, unfamiliar lands. 

I walked the narrow passageway from the cells and passed through the “Gate of No Return’ into the sunlight and humidity of an African day. The wretched slaves no doubt quaked at the sight that confronted them. Riding at anchor like a gigantic waterbird with folded wings would be the vessel waiting to carry them away from Mother Africa. 

And on the sandy beach, sailors waited with red-hot branding irons and heavy iron shackles ready to process them into their new slavery before they were forced into canoes and ferried out to the waiting slave-ship. 

Nothing prepared me for this. In my imagination, I saw a procession of ghostly figures streaming out through the “Gate of No Return” to the waiting ships riding at anchor just offshore. 

Eventually, the oppressiveness of the slaves’ dungeons got the better of me and I sought relief in the courtyard and upper levels of the fortress where the white governor lived and reigned with his assistants. 

I visited the small church – which was directly above the holding pens – where the white man worshiped his God and sang hymns of praise to His greater glory. I paused for a few minutes in the cool serenity of the chapel and as I sat solitary in a pew, I wondered if the white worshippers ever gave thought to the suffering, black humanity just a few feet below them as they prayed for God’s blessings on their endeavours.  Somehow, I doubt they did. 

As I sat in that church, I truly became aware of man’s inhumanity to his fellow man.

My final inspection was of the governor’s quarters on the top level of the fortress. I compared it spaciousness, its light and its airiness to the gloom and filth of the slave pens far below. The guide showed me the secret stairway which led directly down to the females slave pens from where the governors made their choices from among the imprisoned, young, African women. My mind recoiled in disgust as I thought about the cruel despoiling of Africa’s proud womanhood by these ‘civilised’ men. 

It seemed to me that slavery brutalises its hapless victims while, at the same time, it taints its willing practitioners. 

I was glad to leave Elmina but equally, I am glad that I’d visited. True it is depressing for me – a young, black man – to visit the scene of such monstrous crimes against people of my skin colour. I know there are those who say we mustn’t make judgements retrospectively; that historically we should judge things within the prevailing attitudes of the time in which they are set.  While that might possibly be true of some things, I can’t see how such logic applies to slavery. 

Less than two hundred years ago – and remember slavery wasn’t abolished in Brazil until the 1888 – white people were more God-fearing and Bible focused than we are today. They lived righteous, law abiding lives and yet many saw no evil in stealing black people from their ancestral homes in Africa and transporting them like cattle to the white slave-markets of the Americas. I refuse to believe they were all that different to us who live in this modern age. I can’t see how their consciences were all that different to my own.  Surely they possessed a moral compass that helped them distinguish between right and wrong. 

Despondently, I made my way back to my hotel where, to wash away the bitter memories of Elmina, I consumed more alcohol than I should.  Certainly, this helped to numb the senses before I finally retired to my room to sleep. 

To seek relief from the oppressive tropical humidity, I removed all my clothing and stretched out naked on my bed to sleep. But sleep was slow in coming and I lay awake thinking back over my visit to the Fortress of São Jorge da Mina and the fate of my distant ancestor who’d spent time there before being shipped to the Caribbean. 

Through the open window of my room, I listened to the myriad sounds of the tropical night. The loud chirruping of insects joined with the trilling of night birds while within the room the rattling hum of the ceiling fan lulled me into a restless sleep. 

I slept and I dreamt of 18^th century Africa and of my ancestor, Danjuma living happily within his tribal village somewhere in the vast hinterland.  I dreamt of his capture by the Arab slavers, of his long trek downriver to the coast and of his incarceration in Elmina. I dreamt of him being branded and placed in chains and of the unimaginable horrors of the months’ long voyage to the Caribbean. I dreamt of him being paraded before the buyers at the slave-market and of his sense of shame as he was sold. 

I dreamt of the years of his servitude as he toiled under the whips of his master’s overseers. 

I wondered if there were moments of happiness amid the grim realities of his life as a slave. I decided there must have been some for obviously he’d ‘jumped the broom’ and had a wife and children. 

After all, I am the living evidence of this. 

I wondered how old he was when, worn out from years of unremitting and unpaid for labour, he found sweet oblivion in a merciful death. 

I pictured him buried in an unmarked grave somewhere on his master’s plantation; now long forgotten and never spoken of by his ashamed descendants.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Destined for a life of bitter slavery

Oil-drillers from Europe can earn big money as fifo (fly in/fly out) workers on the remote oil-fields of the Middle-East and North Africa. 

Of course, there is a danger in that often such work is in areas of high risk of attack by insurgents who are hostile to the West and to those perceived as "infidels" making them easy prey for Islamic extremists. However, many men consider the risks are minimal and tempted by the high wages, they disregard their own safety.

Greed overcomes caution! 

Sadly, these three luckless workers are now learning this to their cost; they were abducted from a remote test drilling site and spirited away to a clandestine slave-market where they are now offered for sale as slaves. The proceeds from their sales will contribute valuable funding to the insurgents to continue their "jihad" against the Western infidels.

Twenty-four year old Welshman, Dafydd Evans is still in shock. Stripped naked, he'd been spreadeagled within an inspection frame - thus making him helpless as prospective buyers inspected his potential and whether or not he'd meet their requirements as a slave.

As as new slave, he was afforded no dignity or respect. Quite simply, he was now a commodity being offered for sale as the buyers minutely and intimately examined him. Hands roamed freely over his impressive nakedness testing for hardness of muscle and sinew to withstand the promise of the inevitable rigours of hard physical labour, individual muscles were pummeled and pinched, hands placed on his impressive chest testing for the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart and the rise and fall of his lungs. Even his abdomen was also tested as the hardness of his six-pack was stroked and admired; and fingers were inserted into his belly-button to ensure there were no risks of hernia.

But worse was to follow as his cock and balls were examined for their health and vigour. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to resist as his balls were weighed in cupped hands and his cock relentlessly stroked to several erections. He struggled in his bonds all to no avail. Then the final indignity as fingers were inserted into his tight, virgin arse. Again he struggled against his bonds as fingers forced their way through his  puckering sphincter into the most private part of his body and he suffered the indignity of being "finger fucked"for the first time in his life.

Dafydd still had one final humiliation to endure as his nose, eyes, ears, mouth, teeth and tongue were examined for their health and soundness. He was revolted by the thought that fingers which just moments ago had been inserted into his arse were now testing his teeth and tongue. Such is the lot of a slave.

Long discussions in an incomprehensible language then took place among those who'd examined him and Dafydd instinctively knew the bidding for him had began and he was being auctioned. The bidding intensified before tapering off to just two bidders both of whom seemed determined to buy him. Minutes dragged by and the auctioneer worked hard to increase their bids. Eventually, the auctioneer clapped his hands as a sign that the sale had been finalised and the slave had been sold.

Dafydd was untied from the inspection frame and placed in heavy chains as his new master prepared to take delivery of him.

Meanwhile, the next slave was dragged forward and spreadeagled within the inspection frame. All eyes were now centred on him and Dafydd was ignored.

Dafydd's future? Let's say it is looking very grim. 

Picture found on the internet; source unknown but it does have all the hallmarks of one of Amalaric's superb works.

 

 Palace Slaves

A Jean-Christophe story in the making! Some of you would know that Chris hasn't been writing in recent times because of a health issue. I have been assisting him as best I can and part of that is checking his past works. Surprisingly, I have found a number of previously unposted stories some of which are incomplete. 

This unpublished story, written a few years back, is one such yarn  which appealed to me and I am posting it here for the first time. I ll leave it to you to decide if you like it or not.

Chris is a longtime admirer of the superb artwork of Theo Blaze and we decided to use some of his art to illustrate the story. Our thanks to Theo for his inspiring works which are among Chris's favourites.

This is an explicit story meant only for adult readers. All character depicted in this story - as in all of Chris's storytelling are over the legal age of eighteen years. If you are under the legal age please leave NOW!!!!!

The Royal Slave 

Part 1 

Part 1:The Second Son

My name is Sanjay and I am a slave.

I haven’t always been in this unhappy condition: until recently, I had lived an exalted life of unimaginable luxury and privilege as the second son of my father, Gahendra the king of a medium sized but prosperous, mountainous kingdom. My older brother, Pradhi was the crown prince to my father’s throne – a position which barring unforeseen circumstances I could never aspire to – and this left me free to live my life in the way I wanted. My brother had all the responsibilities of being crown prince while I indulged myself in a life of unchallenged luxury.

There were those among my father’s advisors who criticised me for being too frivolous and even described me as dissolute in comparison to my older, more serious brother as he was prepared for eventual kingship. What these courtiers failed to grasp was the frustration of being the king’s second son and junior heir. I was, in every sense, just the “spare to the heir” who would never be anything other than an ineffectual, junior member of the ruling royal family.

It was impressed on me at an early age that I had to accept my lower position within the monarchy. In m boyhood days this didn’t affect me greatly other than that my education was very different to that of Pradhi. While he was schooled in kingship, matters of state, politics and diplomacy, I on the other hand was educated for a lesser supporting role to my father and brother possibly a future emissary or diplomat to the surrounding kingdoms who were perpetually a war with one another.

I was also trained in the art of warcraft; by tradition, my ultimate role as the king’s second son would be as the head of the royal army and so, from an early age, I was trained in areas of combat, defence and military strategy. This allowed me to expend my youthful energy despite my young age of eighteen years and gave me something to look forward to at a later date. Meanwhile, the army was in the very capable hands of my father’s younger brother, Prince Mahavir and his son, Prince Tanvir.

Later in my teens, I came to understand my true position in the royal hierarchy – that of never being anything other than “second best” and this did irritate me to the extent that I decided to compensate by using my privileged position to indulge with the noble sons of my father’s courtiers in a profligate lifestyle of hunting, feasting and whoring. My father turned a “blind eye” to my lifestyle – no doubt recognising the frustrations of my true status as his minor son. It could be said he indulged me and despite occasional criticism from his counselors, he allowed me a great deal of latitude.

Our kingdom was stable – thanks to the efforts of my uncle, Prince Mahavir who maintained strict order among the smaller, squabbling kingdoms which surround us. They seemed to be constant quarreling among themselves which gave way to frequent skirmishes among them. As long as their squabbles didn’t impact on the affairs of our kingdom, my father never interfered in their tiresome wars which usually resulted in the taking of many prisoners who were then sold into slavery. Our kingdom profited from this and our slave-markets were seldom empty and generated much wealth.

Slavery is endemic in our part of the world and it is inconceivable to think of life without slaves to serve us. They are the powerhouses of our kingdom and the generators of much wealth. Slaves serve in all areas of our daily lives. They provide the constant labour for our agriculture, the brute strength for construction works, mines and quarries and serve us in our homes and bed-chambers. They are also wonderful pack-animals and provide the motive power in our mountainous terrain moving heavy loads of produce along narrow, steep, winding paths over mountains and down into t the deep valleys and connecting communities with one another.

Naturally, my father was the owner of many slaves – the exact number was unknown – but the royal palace was staffed by hundreds of slaves all wearing the royal brand on their bodies. They served as cooks, waiters, body-slaves, gardeners, grooms in the royal stables and as litter-bearers in the frequent religious and ceremonial processions as the king and his entourage moved among the people on holy days and festivals.

The majority of the palace slaves are males although there are female slaves used as hand-maidens to the women of the royal household. Males are stronger and more robust and therefore they are more productive and were preferred by my father. The female slaves serve a secondary, important role as breeding-stock for future generations of new slaves and the king maintained a compound where males and females were bred like any other domestic stock.

Therefore, I grew up surrounded by slaves who pandered to my every want and need; my wish was their immediate command or they would be severely punished by caning. My father eschewed the use of the whip on his household slaves for fear of marring their physical beauty. The whip was only used on extreme occasions after which the wretched slave was banished from court and put to hard labour in a quarry or on a construction site.

My personal preference was for the male slaves and unlike my brother, I had absolutely no interest in females. To be truthful, at the onset of puberty, I realised my preference for male-on-male sex and I took full advantage of the slaves at my disposal. I have lost count of how many slave arses I have fucked over the years but they would number in the hundreds. My royal rod was forever eager in seeking out a slave’s tight hole or deep throat to satisfy my insatiable lust for the male body.

For me, the naked male body stood at the pinnacle of evolution. Fortuitously, my father kept his slaves stark naked or, only when absolutely necessary, in a state minimal nudity with the barest scrap of cloth covering the slave’s nakedness. And I wholeheartedly approved for I was always aroused by the sight of a naked, male slave with an imposing physique, superb musculature and handsome features. I mean what connoisseur of the male body doesn’t salivate at the sight of a well-rounded, high jutting arse and a delightful pleasure package of a generous cock and heavy ball-sac swinging freely the muscular thighs of a fully nude slave boy.

My father’s preference for keeping his slaves stark naked differed markedly from mine. His reasons were practical; my own was prurient and driven by lust. The king’s decision was based on the secret fear that most slave-owners harbour about their slaves especially if the slaves number in the hundreds as they did within the royal palace compound. Slave-owners exploit their slaves most cruelly and yet they secretly fear them should they rise up in rebellion against their masters. My father is oft-given to quoting the story of Spartacus and to this end, he kept the palace slaves naked so they had no places of concealment on their bodies for weapons.

I always regarded my father’s fears as unfounded – after all the palace is well protected by my uncle’s army – and I feared no slave.

In my spare time I frequented the city’s slave-traders and their markets; especially after an influx of newly captured slaves from the interminable squabbles beyond our borders. There was nothing I enjoyed more than poking around the slave-pens and I was given “carte blanche” by the slavers to intimately inspect their livestock and should I desire it, even to “try before I buy”. Usually, my visits resulted in a “gift” from an obsequious trader thanking me for my royal patronage of his humble establishment. Needless to say, I never refused such gifts and acquired a number of highly desirable slaves who serve me in my private apartments in the palace.

As can be seen, I lived a somewhat idyllic life without true purpose, Eventually, I accepted I would always play second place to my older brother and I gave myself over to the pursuit of earthly pleasures.

My life seemed assured; however, no one truly controls his own fate. That is in the “hands of the gods” and soon my life changed irrevocably and for the worst.

 

To be continued ………………

 

 Herodotus

The agony of the wheel.

I am a longtime admirer of the works of Herodotus and this one in particular has always been  a favourite of mine.

As you know, a favourite theme of mine is that of the condition of a galley slave. This is equaled by my interest in millstones, grinding-stones, waterwheels, wine-presses in their many forms and these are themes I have often written about in some of my stories.

The thought of a man becoming a slave, stripped naked, placed in chains and shackled to one of these cruel contraptions for countless hours is one that fires my imagination. Countless times, I have fantasized about being in the position of the slave portrayed by Herodotus; condemned to the never-ending drudgery of a mere beast-of-burden and made to mindlessly and repetitiously plod in a a never-ending circle of mindless misery. 

Apart from the punishing labour of keeping the wheel turning at the required speed, the luckless slave must suffer the sting of an impatient overseer's whip. As the slave places one plodding foot in front of the other, his mind must surely atrophy from lack of stimulus. His world is confined to a never-ending circle of hard, physical labour as he strains every muscle and sinew in his body to keep the wheel turning. Truly, his suffering is that of the galley-slave.

And let's not forget the countless slaves in ancient Rome manning these contraptions to grind the grain, press the grapes and extract the oil from olives. 

Their's was a bitter slavery!

My thanks to Herodotus for this particular piece of art which has inspired some of my writing.