Caveat Emptor
(Let the buyer beware)

Note: In ancient Rome, aedieles played an important role that impacted the lives of her citizens. They were elected officials who were responsible for the maintenance of temples, public buildings, sewers, aqueducts, and the regulation of festivals. Other duties included the powers to enforce public order , ensure that the city was well supplied and its infrastructure maintained to high standards and protected from deadly fire - a difficult task given that Rome was fire-prone because of its many multi-storied tenements constructed of timber and other combustible materials.

Aediles also had oversight of commerce and the city's markets. hey ensured that merchants and traders kept to the correct weights and measures and that the citizens' rights were upheld. As such, they also had oversight of Rome's slave-markets and the same rules applied there as it did for all merchants.

Rome's slaves were officially designated as "res mortalis" meaning a "mortal thing".Thus they were stripped of their humanity and became objects and as such, a slave if hurt, wasn't regarded as being injured - rather he was "damaged". 

Any slave-trader offering a slave for sale was obliged to advise all buyers of any such damage which was inscribed on a wooden tablet called a "titulus"  which was hung around the slave's neck.

Making a final selection:

A prominent Roman citizen - a senator no less - has prevailed on the slave-trader to allow him to preview six of the newly arrived slaves he has selected to serve as litter-bearers for the new, smaller litter he had made to better navigate Rome's narrow, overcrowded street. The litter is small enough to travel the streets without hindrance but ornate and heavy enough to reflect his importance. He required six brawny slaves to carry this new litter and after an exhaustive but pleasurable examination of the slaves in their pens, he has chosen these six as his preferred options.

In the picture, we see the slave Chrysos at the far right standing with his head bowed in shame and humiliation at the senator's invasive inspection of his body. He could only stand in impotent rage as the senator roamed freely over his nakedness, poking and prodding is muscles to determine their strength and then the final indignity of have the senator's finger probe deep into the most private and intimate part of his body.

Standing next to Chrysos and slightly behind him, Eros, who has endured the same indignities, glowers at his captors in a show of useless defiance. He forgets he is now a slave and any acts of disobedience won't be tolerated.

The senator is anxious to own the six slaves he has chosen and he has offered the slave-dealer and attractive sum over and above their true value. 

The slave-dealer is tempted to accept.

Artwork by Amalaric. The text is mine.

 Paying the penalty for rebellion.

After a harrowing sea voyage in the fetid, putrid hold of a slave merchant's vessel,  Eros and Chrysos and their brothers in misfortune arrive at the port of Ostia. 

Here, no time is wasted in unloading and shackling them into a coffle ready for the short journey to Rome's graecostadium slave-market. Word of their arrival has preceded them to Rome and already potential buyers are gathering eager to examine so much new, male slave-flesh. 

Roman demand for slaves is insatiable; especially for newly enslaved prisoners of war or those taken as"rebels" as is the case with Eros and Chrysos. The slave-dealers have widely publicised this latest shipment of slaves are among the best they have ever handled and consist of strong, healthy, young males all in the primest of condition who are available for inspection and examination before mounting the auction-block. 

This has aroused the interest of both the genuine buyer and the lecherous voyeurs - who have no intention of buying but merely to satisfy their lascivious lust with unrestricted, hands-on, close inspections of the hapless new slaves' naked bodies.

Under Roman law, a slave is classified as "res" meaning "a thing" or more precisely he is called "res mortalis" - or a mortal thing.  For the purposes of insurance, a Roman slave doesn't sustain injury; rather he is a damaged object. This robs the new slave of his humanity and reduces him to the status of being subhuman. And now, this is the condition of both Eros and Chrysos.

Both are unaware of the indignities and degradation that await them as Rome's newest slaves. Over the next few days their nude bodies will be assailed and abused in ways they could never have imagined. Under the whips of the slavers, they will stand passively as they are minutely examined. Over time, they will learn the difference of being evaluated by the genuine buyer looking to buy a muscle slave to labour in the fields, mines, quarries and construction sites and the lecherous, lewd voyeurs who abuse their young bodies for their own sexual gratification.

The genuine slave-buyer will  poke, prod, pinch and probe as he ascertains the slave's physical strengths; whereas the lechers will sexually exploit the slave's naked body for his own erotic pleasure. And both Eros and Chrysos will be powerless to stop them for fear of the whip.

They are paying a heavy penalty for rebelling against Rome's authority!

Art for this is by Baron and is one of my absolute favourites. But then his works never disappoint! The text  is mine.

 Wreaking Vengeance!

Having  ruthlessly dealt with the leaders of the revolt against their rule, the Roman army (exercitus Romanus) turns its wrath against the vanished defenders of the city and its defenseless citizens.

Here, we see two defenders of the city, Eros and Chrysos who have been captured by Roman soldiers being dragged to the wharves which serve as an assembly area where the hapless captives are prepared for slavery. Here, they will be stripped of their loincloths, sandals and any personal possessions - remember in Rome, slaves aren't allowed personal possessions as as they are "owned objects".

Then, stark naked, Eros and Chrysos will have shackles fastened around their wrists and ankles before being whipped to their knees as the heavy iron collar of slavery is fastened around their necks.

After which, they will be driven under the whip aboard one of the waiting slave-ships where they will be packed into overcrowded, stinking, fetid holds for the long voyage to a distant slave-market to meet Rome's insatiable need for slaves. 

Picture sourced from the internet and artist unknown. The text is mine.

 The Scarecrow!

Rome had zero tolerance of those who questioned her right to rule or challenged her authority to do so. Retribution, at the hands of her near invincible legions was swift and brutal.

The Roman army was ruthlessly efficient in putting down any rebellions by Rome's subjugated peoples and merciless in subduing them. Any subject province or city that  rose against Rome suffered at the hands of her vengeful legions.

No quarter was given and no mercy shown as cities were destroyed and their citizens put to the sword or marched off into slavery. And the"rebel leaders" were hunted down and, depending on their importance, were summarily executed or taken back in triumph to Rome to be ignominiously paraded through the streets before being garroted. 

Here, we see one such rebel leader caught while attempting to flee his doomed city. Taken prisoner by the army, he is being crucified in the doorway of his home where he'll be left to hang and die a slow agonising death as he watches his city being looted and her citizens placed in chains and consigned to slave-markets in Rome, Ephesus or the island of Delos.

Like the scarecrows of later eras used to protect crops by frightening away scavenging  birds, his writhing suffering and cries of agony will serve as a warning to all those who dare to challenge Rome's might or to disrupt the "Pax Romana".

Picture used is the artwork of the great and highly talented Baron. Text is mine.

 The Royal Slave

Chapter 3

Written by Jean-Christophe:

Mahavir, very recently installed by the coup leaders as King Mahavir IV to replace his deceased brother, King Gahendra had spent a restless night. The events of the day had overwhelmed him as he deeply mourned the sudden, unexpected death of his older brother. He is overcome by Gahendra’s untimely demise and his grief is both genuine and personal.

Mahavir isn’t a bad man and he’d never aspired to be anything other than what he was; the second son of a king destined to live in the shadow of an older brother who would be king. Mahavir is a true royalist and a loyal member of the ruling family. Therefore, he’d always accepted the kingship of Gahendra and had carved out a career for himself as the leader of the nation’s army. In this he was assisted by his own son, twenty-five-year-old Prince Tanvir.

Both father and son were fierce warriors who’d worked hard to protect the kingdom from the many smaller, squabbling enemy countries surrounding them all intent on doing them harm. The fact that Mahavir had managed to keep these enemies in check thus securing the borders of the kingdom and guaranteeing the peace, stability, prosperity and well-being of its citizens was a source of great pride to him and it had earned him the gratitude of both the ordinary citizen and the army.

He’d been shocked into silence when he was informed of Gahendra’s untimely demise and for a while his mind couldn’t process the news. Thankfully, the Royal Chamberlain took control of the situation and made preparations for the orderly transfer of power to the new ruler. Prince Mahavir gave his approval and signed the edict which declared Crown Prince Pradhi as the new King to be known as Pradhi VIII and the anointing of his younger brother, Prince Sanjay as the new crown prince.

Armed with the edict, Mahavir and the chamberlain went to pay their respects to the new king and to pledge their loyalty to him. However, on the way to his apartments, they were intercepted by a group of royal council members who told them the council had decided that Prince Pradhi was unsuitable to be king and they had set aside the order of succession in his favour.

Mahavir was angered by this news which amounted to a coup and he protested most strongly that he would never be a usurper. He asked why they had made this decision only to be told that Pradhi was too young and inexperienced to be king. The rationale for their argument was the fear their enemies would perceive Pradhi as “weak” and join together to attack the kingdom. What was needed to safeguard the kingdom was an older, more experienced king whom their enemies feared and the council had voted in favour of Mahavir being crowned as the next king.

In fairness, Mahavir had to acknowledge there was some validity to this argument but nevertheless, he still wasn’t convinced and once more he refused to accept his late brother’s crown which he regarded as rightly belonging to his nephew. He hoped by making this decision, the royal council would rethink its position and return to the established order of succession. In thinking this, he was mistaken and the councillors told him if he refused the crown then it would be offered to his son Prince Tanvir.

Mahavir loved his son but the thought of being subject to him was one he didn’t relish. Undoubtedly, Tanvir at twenty-five was a proven warrior – one greatly feared by their enemies – but he had a volatile nature, quick temper and diplomacy wasn’t one of his strengths. Additionally, he possessed a cruel streak – he showed no mercy to his enemies – and Mahavir knew instinctively that Tanvir wasn’t yet ready for kingship.

As he listened to the councillors, Mahavir felt he was caught between Scylla and Charybdis. And yet, as he wrestled with the problem, he already knew the answer; he must accept the crown offered him. However, at the back of his mind was the thought would the people accept him as their next king or see him as a usurper who’d deposed the true heir, Prince Pradhi?

Reluctantly, He agreed and was proclaimed King Mahavir IV to succeed his brother.

                                       >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The night had been long and sleepless and even the young slave sleeping at his side hadn’t given Mahavir any comfort. Mahavir has a predilection for young male slaves and normally, he would have fucked the slave several times.

However, his mind was troubled by the thought of whether or not his kingship was legitimate and the thought of Gahendra’s funeral tomorrow, which he must attend as the new king, weighed heavily on his mind. Additionally, he worried about the mood of the people as they said farewell to a much-loved king and greeted a new, as yet, untried one. He was apprehensive of the reception he’d receive from his subjects.

Religious tradition dictates that Gahendra’s body be carried in solemn procession to the royal burning ghat and cremated to release his immortal spirit from the corruptible, mortal body after which his ashes will be taken by monks to the Himalayan Mountain peak known as “The Abode of the Gods” and scattered to the wind in four directions. As king, Gahendra had been revered as a god and the dispersal of his ashes will ensure that he now rests with his fellow gods and goddesses.

And Mahavir wondered about his nephews, Prince Pradhi and Prince Sanjay. Where are they and what is to become of them? He’d asked about their whereabouts and he had been assured by the royal council that both were safely confined in the palace for their own protection. What he wasn’t told is that both are naked, in chains and confined in a dungeon deep in the bowels of the palace.

Tomorrow, he will ask more about them and ensure they are safe.

Gradually, calmness overtook Mahavir and the comforting warmth of the sleeping slave’s naked body helped relax him. The warmth from the slave’s body enveloped Mahavir while the rhythmic beating of this heart helped to sooth him. He turned his head sideways to better appraise the slave and he wasn’t disappointed. The mere sight of the sleeping slave’s body lifted him out of his gloom and aroused his lust.

Mahavir listened to the rhythmic, deep breathing of the young slave peacefully sleeping by his side. As part of the Royal Harem and the exclusive property of the late king, this slave was previously unknown to him. Now, as the king, the slave belonged to him.

The slave was beside himself when the Royal Chamberlain had summoned him and told him he was to be honoured by giving pleasure to his new Master, King Mahavir and his face broke into a happy smile when told he was to spend the night in his master's bed.

When Mahavir finally did get to bed, he was to overcome by the day’s events to adequately respond to the slave's willingness to please him. Overwhelmed by the new responsibilities of kingship, Mahavir drifted in and out of a fitful sleep but he was always aware of the slave's presence in his bed. He appreciated the warmth of the slave's body and frequently drew him closer. Somehow, it was comforting to snuggle into the slave's hard nakedness and for the moment, he was contented.

But as he awakened, the sight of the slave stirred his lust and he wanted more from the slave.

Reaching out, Mahavir gently stroked the slave's smooth cheek. He watched as the slave stirred, stretched and arched his back raising his chest and belly up from the bed in response to Mahavir’s touch. And he was rewarded by the delightful sight of the slave's incipient erection. Yes, Mahavir concluded this slave was most delightful and worthy of his royal attention.

This would be the first time he’d used this slave and he concluded he’d make a fitting receptacle for his royal lust.

Mahavir looked not unkindly at the handsome slave slowly awakening alongside of him. He always considers himself to be a good master and whilst he regards a slave as just that, he always feels a degree of temporary tenderness to any slave he has in his bed. He supposes this is much like the feeling one has towards a loving and loyal pet.  

As he felt his master's hands move down to his throbbing cock, the slave woke and gazed up into the face of his master. His face was wreathed in a broad smile and Mahavir was enchanted by the young slave's charming response.

Mahavir lingered in his appraisal of the fair skinned slave's muscular body and he estimated his age at eighteen or nineteen. The handsome face was topped by blond hair and his blue eyes somehow complemented the full red lips; when he smiled the slave revealed the perfection and whiteness of his teeth.

Such slaves are a rarity and Mahavir will discover that this slave was regarded as the “rarest jewel” by the late king. Mahavir has heard that such fair-skinned, blond, blue-eyed people exist as small minorities in the surrounding nations. Legend has it they are the descendants of those warriors who fought with Alexander the Great before his untimely death. Rather than return home to faraway Greece they’d settled and intermarried within the local tribes. Whether nor not such rumours are true is open to debate; however, the slave’s exquisite beauty and magnificent physique suggest it’s possible.

Stretching his arms above his head, the slave exposed his armpits to Mahavir’s view; this had the effect of throwing his strong, muscular chest into relief and tightening the pectorals. Mahavir ever so gently moved his fingertips down the inside of the up stretched arms pausing to tease the hairless armpits. And he was rewarded as the slave's body quivered into response and he heard the slave's breathless exclamation of.

 "OH! MASTER!"

Mahavir wondered – is this an expression of his pleasure at my touch or is he begging for me to continue? The slave needn't concern himself; he had no intention of stopping. His own throbbing, aching cock wouldn’t allow it.

As Mahavir playfully tickled the slave's chest, and teased the erect nipples, he watched the quickening rise and fall of the belly and involuntary pulsing of his cock. A rounded pearl of pre-cum, glistening at the piss-slit, was clear evidence of the slave's response to his advances. And the king wasn't about to disappoint him.

His only consideration was how he'd fuck the slave - on his back or on all fours? Mahavir is partial to both but in this instance, he decided to have the slave on his back. He really wanted to look into the slave's face as he thrusts into him.

The slave, of course, is comfortable in either position; his training in the male harem ensured this is the case. Responding to Mahavir’s command, the slave lay flat on his back and raised his legs back towards his shoulders. Mahavir noted that the slave's cock rested flat against his belly pointing towards his head and his scrotum held both balls in a tight embrace.

But it was the rosy-pink anus that aroused Mahavir’s interest and enchanted him. The sphincter winked a welcoming invitation to his cock to come and visit. The slave looked back between his upraised legs and smiled shyly at Mahavir. He waited expectantly for his royal Master to fuck him and Mahavir in full, sexual arousal wasn't about to disappoint him.

As he entered the slave, Mahavir’s cock was wrapped in a tight, warm embrace and he paused briefly to savour the feel of the slave's body. He shuddered as he felt the tightening constrictions of the arse muscles as they first squeezed and then relaxed around his cock. Soon he was driving into the recesses of the slave's body and varying both the speed and depth of his thrusting. The slave, eager to please his master, rose to the occasion and began to moan appreciatively.
 
The king looked into the face of the slave seeking to gauge his re-action. Normally, this wouldn't concern him - it doesn't matter to him if a slave enjoys being fucked. After all, it is done for the master's pleasure and not for the slave. Yet, for some unknown reason, he wanted this slave to enjoy the experience.

Perhaps, it was the slave's guileless charm that attracted him and looking down at the slave, he saw the broad smile on the open, innocent face and he heard the gentle sighs of contentment, Mahavir KNEW the slave was working hard to please and satisfy him and at the same time deriving pleasure from doing so.

This pleased him and he asked himself if it was possible for the slave to pay him any greater compliment than to so openly acknowledge the pleasure this was bringing to him.

Both master and slave were locked in mutual ecstasy and Mahavir continued with his impatient thrusting almost as one driven. And as he smelt the heady aroma of the slave's sex sweat, he quickened his pace and was soon brought to climax. Finally, as he noisily grunted his orgasm into the slave's eager, hungry body, he was rewarded with a heartfelt.

"Thank you Master! Oh, thank you Master!"

Now spent, Mahavir fell onto the slave's heaving chest and felt the accelerated beating of his heart. Mahavir always likes the quiet stillness of the minutes immediately following an intense fucking; he likes to rest with his body in close contact with the slave's own. Contentedly, he waited as his cock shrunk back to normal and slipped out of the slave. Then, as Mahavir withdrew the slave asked.

"Master! May I speak?"

Not unkindly, Mahavir  gave his permission to the slave.

"What is it slave? What do you want to say?"

"Thank you master." the slave simply answered,

"What for slave? Why are you thanking me?"

"For allowing me to pleasure you, Master."

Mahavir sensed the honesty of the slave's reply and was strangely touched by his sincerity. Somehow, he wanted to reward the slave. But how can he do so? Then, as he sees the slave's hard cock throbbing from its unfulfilled longing, he asks.

"How long has it been since you were last allowed relief, slave?"

"Master?"

"How long is it since you last masturbated, boy?"

"I don't know, Master. But it's been some time since my former master allowed me to do so."

"I'm well pleased with you slave and you now have my permission to pleasure yourself as a reward. "

"Oh, Master! Thank you! Thank you!"

The slave’s gratitude for his master’s magnanimity was heartfelt and Mahavir was deeply touched by it.  

"Then get to it slave, before I change my mind." Mahavir was faintly amused by the slave's obvious joy.

Uninhibited by his master's presence, the young slave began to work his cock as Mahavir looked on. The slave was grateful to his new master for this unexpected treat and savoured every stroke of his hand.

At first, Mahavir watched indulgently but a glance out the window at the rising sun told him time was moving on and he has much to attend to. Not unkindly, he prompted the slave to.

"Speed it up slave.

Obediently, the slave quickened his pace and was soon crooning out in ecstasy as he erupted, splattering his seed over his chest and belly. Once more, the grateful slave thanked his master most profusely.

 

                                            >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

As night gives way to day, Mahavir is a different man. Last night’s fears and apprehensions have given way to a new optimism and confidence. Last night, he retired full of self-doubt and convinced of his inadequacy to rule as the new king.

Today, he is his own man and determined to be a good and fair king. However, he realises he still has much to learn and that he must skillfully handle those who’d placed his late brother’s crown on his head.

Mahavir’s new outlook is, in part, due the slave who’d shared his bed overnight; fucking him had lifted Mahavir from his despondency and dispelled his gloom.

Mahavir is impressed with this slave, who has only been in his service for less than a day. He determines to use the slave again and, in the meantime, to use him as a personal body-slave. 

He orders the slave to prepare his bath and instructs him what kingly garments to lay out. 

Today, he intends to rule as the king!

 

To be continued    ……….

                                                  

The beautiful artwork used to illustrate this chapter is the work of Bazz! Thank you, Bazz for the inspiration.

Mandingo

This is a scene from the 1975 movie, Mandingo which shows the slave, Mede played by Ken Norton, being sold at auction. 

Frankly, I thought this was a 'goddamn' awful movie and I have only ever viewed is once or twice. Universally condemned by critics at the time, it nevertheless, proved popular with movie goers possibly because of its prurient content and the breaking of some of the social taboos of 1975. 

And yet, it did serve a useful purpose in that it showed the worst aspects of chattel slavery which up until then, had been glossed over and largely overlooked by many people - that is, if they ever thought about slavery in the first place.

I can't help but compare Mandingo with earlier interpretations of black slaves in movies and novels who were portrayed as happy, cheerful, loyal and obedient in their service to their white owners. Who remembers the candy-floss portrayal of black slaves in "Gone with the Wind?" 

Whilst I have seldom viewed the movie, I read Kyle Onstott's book, Mandingo - on which the movie is based - with interest and though it isn't a literary masterpiece, I believe it had a seminal influence on future writers by revealing the true nature of slavery and the attitudes of slave-holders towards their victims. 

The thing I remember most about the movie is the slave-auction as shown in the attached picture. The first time I viewed this, I was impressed by the physical presence of the near naked slave, Mede - who wouldn't be - and equally unimpressed by the poor acting skills of the main players in this scene.

That is until, the lustful German widow mounted the platform and placed her hand under Mede's loincloth to feel his cock and balls. Her actions were unexpected and took me by surprise. And I always remember her heavily accented words as she manipulated the slave's genitals

"I never buy der pig in der poke!"

Her actions aroused me and I understood the shame, humiliation and degradation all slaves must have endured as they were sold at public auction. 

Picture is a still from the movie, Mandingo. The text is mine.

Otis Quagg, itinerant slave-trader visits the plantation 

The New Purchase!

Plantation owner: "He's a fine, young buck, Otis! What's his story?"

Otis Quagg: "He's new to slavery, Saggory. Aged eighteen or thereabouts and born free in the North. I'm guessin' he's the git of runaway slaves who made it to the North. But as you say, he's a prime, strapping animal. Feel the power and strength in those muscles. I reckon there's fifteen to twenty years of hard field work in this boy, Saggory!"

Plantation owner: "And his cock ain't bad either. He looks lively to me and I'm aguessin' he'd sire quite a few suckers given the chance. He looks hair-triggered and rarin' to go, don't he?"

Otis Quagg: "Well, he's yours if you agree to the price I asking for such a prime, well set-up, young buck."

Plantation owner: "Then let's shake hands on the deal and I can send him to the blacksmith for collaring and branding before I put him to work in the fields. No time to waste as there's a lot of cane to harvest. Best get him started without delay. Born free, indeed! Blacks ain't meant to be free; they're born to be slaves and this boy has a lot of catchin' up to do."

Picture found on the internet; source unknown. Text is mine.

 The First Time

Sentenced by the courts to lifetime enslavement for a white collar crime, the new slave was purchased by an exclusive hotel chain to serve as a male whore to its guests - either male or female. After all, it's of no concern to the slave if he fucks or is fucked.

Here, we see him about to "entertain" for the first time; hence his nervousness as the guest unwraps the "goodies".

We can only hope the guest allows the slave some latitude as it is his first time. However, this is doubtful given the very high fee the hotel charges for its "in-house entertainment". And then there is the exorbitant surcharge added to the usual fee as the slave is a virgin. 

No doubt the guest will expect his money's worth and who can blame?

Video found on the internet and source unknown. The text is mine.

 Amistad

I love slave-market scenes! 

Like whipping scenes, I find them visceral and at times confronting but always erotic and arousing. I have had many hours of "enjoyment" from viewing and writing about slaves being bought and sold or flogged.

I guess, given my temperament, it is easy for me to transpose myself into these scenes and to take on the role of one of the slaves. Who among us who profess to being "slaves" doesn't share my feelings?

The 1997 movie, "Amistad" is among my favourites because of the disturbing realism it gives to the meaning of enforced chattel slavery. We see free black Africans kidnapped from their homes and families and carried off to slavery in strange new lands most probably unknown to them where they are condemned to work as mere beasts-of burden under appalling conditions.

I recall watching Amistad for the fist time in silence and was deeply affected by the "realism" of the slave scenes. I watched as the terrified slaves were herded from the land-based slave-holding pens into boats and ferried offshore to the waiting slave-ship. There, driven by the whips of their handlers, they hastily clambered on board and blessed by a priest who gave them a Christianised name. This wasn't fiction; such blessings of the new slaves was common. Now deprived of their freedom and their birth names, they were reduced to the level of animals, stripped naked for obvious sanitary reasons and shackled onto overcrowded benches for the long voyage of up to eighteen weeks to their new homes - in this case it was Cuba. Many wouldn't survive the voyage becoming victims of the unsanitary conditions while others simply lost the will to live and expired.

On arrival in Cuba, the new slaves were unloaded and placed in holding-pens to recover from the voyage and to be conditioned ready for auction. 

On auction-day, as seen in the above picture, the slaves were scrubbed clean and their bodies coated with palm-oil to favourably highlight their physiques. Finally, placed on the auction-block, they could only watch in mute fear as people outbid one another for the "right" to buy and own them. 

Such is the hopelessness of chattel slavery!

A number of times, I have written about slave-auctions in my stories. I have never sanitised them and I have always striven to make them as authentic as I can. To do otherwise is to trivialise the nature of true slavery and to deny the suffering and humiliation felt by another human has he is being bought or sold. 

Certainly, I take writer's licence in my interpretations of slave-auctions to cater for the erotic interests of myself and my readers.  However, I try to write stories that appeal to the Master/slave community and at the same time to recognise the indignity and humiliation a real slave felt as he was sold. Whether or not I succeed is for others to judge.

Chris

The above scene is a movie still from the 1997 movie, "Amistad".

 Alex Cressan as the slave Tamango

I have always enjoyed movies that feature slaves or slavery. No doubt, this is because of my own slave inclinations and over the years, I have viewed countless movies which deal with slavery - a subject very dear to my heart.

I especially liked the older movies about slavery even though I now know they were sanitised to conform to the rules of the times in which they were made. In retrospect, I believe they lack authenticity unlike today when we have more freedom to portray realism.

One movie I remember from my youth was a 1958 movie called "Tamango" which featured a Dutch ship's captain and slaver played by Curt Jurgens who has on board his vessel a cargo of slaves from West Africa bound for Cuba.

Among the cargo was a young, male slave called Tamango who gave his name to the movie.  In life, he was Alex Cressan, a young actor from Martinique, and he certainly made a fine slave as seen in the above picture. And I loved his tattered loincloth. As some would know, I am very partial to slaves who wear loincloths. To me they epitomise the very essence of slavery. Although, I now know that in reality, Tamango and his fellow slaves would have been stark naked on the long voyage to Cuba. 

As far as I can ascertain, Alex Cressan only made this one film and he disappeared from our screens. 

 A great pity about that!

Chris

buy an upmar

The Lottery Winner

"I just won me first prize in the lottery. I've been able to buy an upmarket apartment, an expensive automobile and a complete new wardrobe of clothes. All I need now is my own whigga fuck-boy."

"Show me your most expensive stock of whitey slaves with deep throats and tight asses!"

Artwork by the incomparable Bazz whose evocative artwork always fires my imagination. Bazz, thank you for the inspiration.

 

 The actor, Patrick Warburton as the slave, Richard Abdee

Le Nouveau Monde:

Thank you to those who contacted me re this story and for the comments made. Yesterday, there were 579 page views of the blog which was way above the daily average. I don't actually know how many read the story but that figure encourages me to consider writing a follow up series possibly named "Ptolemy, the slave" which expands on Ptolemy's life as a Belvoir Plantation slave.

It was also drawn to my attention that the model used by garyRo and who I chose to portray Thierry Broussard is in fact an actor, Patrick Warburton who played the part of a slave, Richard Abdee in the 1987 movie, "Dragonard". I am not familiar with this movie but will view it shortly.

Attached is a still from the movie sent to me which shows Richard Abdee after he is sold at public auction.  

Once again, thank you all for your comments.

Chris

 Whipped and branded!

The transformation of Ptolemy from free man to slave is completed.

Le Noveau Monde

Part 4

“The Warehouse”

 This is a story of erotic fiction meant for adult readers over the legal age. If you are underage, please leave now.

 Written by Jean-Christophe in 2009 and re-edited in 2013.

“The characters and ideas in this story belong in the writer’s imagination. Please respect the integrity of the story and don’t do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures.”

 Part 4: The Warehouse. 

The drive through town to the riverside warehouse is just a short one and yet it seems to last an eternity.  

I know it is just my imagination, but I am convinced everyone is looking at me and pointing out that I was once an heir to Belvoir Plantation. Of course, I know this isn’t the case and outside of my new Master, his two attorneys and Hiram Pettigrew no one knows that I am the former Thierry Broussard and that I am now the mulatto slave, Ptolemy.  However, one other knows - that is Brutus - but he is of no consequence. He is, after all, just a slave like me.

My new designation as a “mulatto” demeans me and speaks of my new non-human, slave status. The word derives from the Latin word “mulus” meaning mule which is the hybrid offspring of a horse and a donkey. In other words, I am neither fully black nor fully white. White people will despise me because of my mixed blood – I know this from my own prejudiced upbringing – and I wonder how Belvoir’s black slaves will receive me. Will I be accepted as one of them or will I be ostracised? 

I don’t doubt for one moment Brutus will delight in telling Belvoir’s slaves the true identity of the latest addition to their number and I wonder what their re-action will be on hearing that young “Massa Thierry” is now the slave Ptolemy.  I face an uncertain future. 

I had never mistreated my father’s slaves; in fact, I’d always enjoyed a good relationship with them and they’d treated me kindly and with the respect due to me as their Master’s younger son. Now of course, that will no longer apply. I will live among them and eat with them; I will toil alongside of them and I will suffer under the overseers’ whips as they do.

Suddenly, my world is a very frightening place and I am very afraid.

At this time of the afternoon, the streets are full of people hurrying about their business. Well-dressed gentlemen stroll casually along the sidewalks pausing to amiably greet a friend or to doff their hats to a New Orleans matron and her debutante daughter passing by in an open carriage driven by a satin liveried slave. Other slaves walk the required three paces behind their masters and mistresses loaded up with parcels from shopping excursions and still more slaves are busy labouring with a multitude of tasks.

The contrast between master and slave couldn’t be starker or more apparent. The free man is peacock resplendent in fine, colourful silks while the common work-slave wears well-worn Osnaburg uniforms similar to the one I now wear.

Our progress through the crowded street is slow and with nothing better to do, I have time to study the crowd. We pass a well-dressed, foppish dandy who is obviously a “gens de coleur libres” or a free coloured person attended by a handsome, young, black slave who is probably his valet and undoubtedly serves as his bed buck. I am envious of the dandy; like him I too am a “gens de coleur’ but unlike him I’m not free. I am a slave to Belvoir Plantation. 

Eventually we turn off the main thoroughfare and travel down a narrow street of warehouses which have been converted to slave holding pens. The stench of the pens is overpowering and I begin to dry retch as my stomach churns.  The stink permeates the air like some foul miasma floating over the area; it is the nauseous smell of human suffering - of unwashed bodies, of urine, excrement and vomit. And the quietness is broken by the pitiful, murmuring voices of so many newly arrived slaves from Africa lamenting their lost freedom and enforced separation from loved ones.

There is no pity in the white man’s heart for their sad plight. These new arrivals are simply commodities - units of labour - to be rested after a horrendous sea voyage and fattened up expeditiously before taking their place on the auction block. All too soon, they will find new homes on the rich, broad acre plantations of the southern aristocracy and forced to work in the cotton or sugarcane fields.

Acting under instructions from Hiram Pettigrew, Brutus halts our buckboard before a riverside warehouse owned by Messrs Clutterbuck and Rasmussen. There are other horse drawn drays and conveyances loading and unloading supplies and we take our place in a queue while our overseer disappears inside the warehouse. I watch as slaves busily shuttle back and forth into the darkened interior of the warehouse staggering under the heavy weight of bales, barrels and baskets.

Immediately in front of us a large dray and team is being unloaded by a gang of brawny slaves, who because of the heat, are working stripped to the waist. They are unloading heavy bales of cotton branded “Jolimont Plantation”- which is well-known to me as the former home of my sister-in-law - and storing them in the warehouse ready for shipment to the cotton mills of Britain. I know that the bales each weigh about four hundred pounds and it requires several slaves to lift them from the dray and carry them into the warehouse.

If I was free, I know I’d salivate at the sight of so much naked muscle. As the slaves stagger under the weight of the impossibly heavy bales, the stress placed on their bodies highlights the working of the different muscle groups of their powerful, sweat glistening torsos. Normally, I would appreciate the erotic display of so much raw, masculine energy and muscular black power – but not today! For I realize that I am now a slave and most likely I will be called upon to perform similar feats of strength. 

Hiram returns several minutes later accompanied by a middle-aged man, Asa Clutterbuck. He unfastens my ankle chain and orders me to.

“Climb down, boy! Time to put you to work. But first remove your shirt.”

I clamber out of the buckboard and in one easy movement, I remove my shirt and stand bare chested before Hiram and the other man. Without thinking – I have yet to acquire the mindset of the slave – I look directly at the two free men. My unintentional impertinence angers the overseer who slaps my face and rebukes me.

“Who are you looking at boy? A slave never stares a white man in the face. Lower your eyes!”

Hastily, I drop my eyes to the ground as the man with Hiram comments.

“The boy’s a bit uppity isn’t he, Hiram? You’ll need to take him down a peg or two from the look of things. Still, he’s a fine-looking, young buck – a high yeller - and he shows the promise of better things.”

The use of the words “high yeller” is an offensive reference to my golden skin tone which now defines me as a coloured man and a slave. It doesn’t matter that I am whiter or that my skin colour is paler than a lot of free, white men.  A “high yeller” slave is a most expensive commodity. And they are highly sort after for the drawing-rooms and salons of New Orleans high society.  Should my Master ever decide to sell me, I would fetch him a handsome sum.

“Hiram, you mentioned he’s the bastard son of old man Broussard and an octoroon wench, is that correct?”

“Yes, he is! It was a well-kept secret from all accounts. Why even the boy himself had no idea that he was slave born. But Monsieur Yves always knew and kept his counsel from what I can gather. I hear he and his father were at loggerheads over the true status of his younger son and he’d secretly vowed that one day the brat would be returned to his natural slavery. And today is that day!”

“I always thought the younger son was away at school In the North?”

“That’s right! His father sent him North to be educated. I suspect the old man’s long-term intentions were for him to stay there permanently.”

“As it turns out, it would have been wiser for him to stay with the Northern abolitionists rather than come south.”

“Indeed, it would! Indeed, it would! Unluckily, his father died and Monsieur Yves sent for him to return home. Of course, he wasn’t aware of the true nature of his birth and probably thought he was to share in Belvoir Plantation. However, Monsieur Yves had other plans for him. Not suspecting anything was amiss, he came home and now finds himself one of Belvoir’s slaves.”

“Do you know what plans Yves Broussard has for the buck?”

“Yes, he’s to work as a field hand initially to toughen him up and to get him thinking like the slave that he is. Later, I think Master Yves plans to use him as a house slave. But first up, he’s to receive a whipping as soon as he arrives at Belvoir.”

“What’s his crime? What offence did he commit to earn punishment so quickly?”

The slave couldn’t keep his mouth shut and kept interjecting while his Master was discussing his affairs with his attorneys. For that he’s to receive ten strokes of the whip.”

“Serve him right too! Monsieur Broussard is right to commence as he intends to continue with him. He’ll need to rule his new slave with a firm hand if I’m any judge. You need to just look at him to see he doesn’t have a slave’s true demeanour. I ain't got any time for a 'mouthy, uppity" slave. I hope his ass hurts after his beating.

“It will, Asa, I assure you.” Hiram Pettigrew laughs. “Brutus here will deliver the whipping and it’s a job he’s very good at.”

I stand mute witness to the two men’s’ conversation about my future. Suddenly, I feel the utter desolation of my situation. Within the space of a few hours my life has been turned upside down. No longer a scion of one of the state’s oldest families, I am now a common slave. As Hiram Pettigrew and Asa Clutterbuck talk, I begin to understand the complete hopelessness and the total helplessness of the true slave. We play no part in our futures; all is determined for us by our owners. And as if to emphasise this Hiram orders me to.

“Move your ass, boy! Take your lead from Brutus and start loading up.”

I’m taken unawares by his next action. Viciously, he lays his whip across my naked shoulders causing me to cry out in pain. The crack of the whip and my startled scream disturb the other slaves working nearby. They look up with fearful expressions and I see reflected in their eyes their pity for a brother slave.

Then Hiram adds further to his command.

“And be quick about it! We don’t have all day to waste. I want to make a start back to the plantation as soon as possible.”

I can’t see my back of course. However, if I could, I would be shocked by the angry red welt raised by the overseer’s whip running diagonally across my shoulders. I can’t see it but I certainly feel the pain it has inflicted on me.

Not wanting to feel the lash for a second time, I hastily follow Brutus into the shadowy interior of the warehouse to where a stash of lumber, barrels, crates and sundry other items are stacked together in a tidy pile. All are stamped with the black lettering “On Consignment to Belvoir Plantation, Louisiana” and I wonder how Brutus knows they are for us.

He is after all a slave and can neither read nor write. What I don’t know is that he is able to recognize the words “Belvoir Plantation” without actually knowing their meaning. Over time I will discover that this is true of most slaves. Denied the right to any education, a slave’s master sees him merely as an ignorant beast of burden and credits him with no intelligence. Yet, most slaves have this ability to associate words to things - as in this instance - but they keep this fact carefully hidden from their owners for fear of punishment.

I am of course a rarity. I am an educated slave who is skilled in reading, writing, science and the various fields of mathematics. Additionally, I speak a number of languages fluently including Latin and Classical Greek. These are the result of my “Yankee” education and will count as nothing in the Southern cotton and sugarcane fields where I am now condemned to labour.

Brutus lowers his voice so that Hiram and Asa can’t hear what he is saying. This reluctance to speak in the presence of free men is common to all slaves and one that I had just accepted as I was growing up. Actually, I’d never thought about it; it was the correct order and an indication that a slave knew his place in the wider scheme of things. A slave remains taciturn and never initiates a conversation with his master; he waits until that master asks him a question or gives him permission to speak. Of course, slaves do talk among themselves and when they are alone in their quarters after their day’s labours, they are quite noisily vocal. But during the working day they remain silent for fear of the overseers’ whips.

Not unkindly, Brutus tells me we will load the heaviest and bulkiest items onto the wagon first. He advised me on how I should to lift to avoid injuring myself; he tells me not to bend at the waist but at my knees and to keep my back straight as I do so.  He whispers.

 “Boss be angry if you hurt yo’self, boy and he’ll whop both our asses!”

Brutus chooses the biggest crate first. He positions himself at one end and tells me to take hold of the other. Taking my lead from Brutus, I bend my knees and remember to keep my back straight. Brutus instructs me to us my legs as levers as we lift the crate. On his word, “lift”, I use my legs to try to straighten up and lift the crate from the warehouse floor.

The crate is heavy and I wonder what it contains that makes it so weighty. As I lift, its weight places enormous stress on my body. I feel the stretching in my back and the tightening across my chest while my biceps become rounded balls of hard muscle. But it is my legs that bear the brunt of my lifting and they fail me. Unused to any physical labour, I’m not equal to the task.

Effortlessly, Brutus lift his end while I still struggle to stand upright. Obviously as a slave, Brutus is more practised at lifting heavy weights than I am and his movements are both quick and fluid. In fact, as I watch, I am struck by his almost graceful movements which bring into play the powerful muscles of his bared torso.

Brutus stands upright and is very much in control of his end of the crate while I struggle to raise my end just a few inches from the floor. I try and use my legs as levers to raise my end but its weight is just too much for me and the incline of the crate throws much of the burden back on my end.

And as I struggle vainly, I see Hiram Pettigrew approaching with his whip uncoiled and at the ready.

“What’s taking you so long?” Hiram asks angrily. “I told you I’m in a hurry to return to Belvoir. Why are you two wasting time?”

Quickly, he assesses the situation - that I am to blame for the delay - and brings his whip into play to spur us along. Firstly, Brutus grunts as the lash falls across his back.  The overseer then turns his attention to me. 

I see Hiram’s arm raised above his head and I hear the fearful whine of his whip as it travels through the resisting air. I hear the loud “thwack” of leather striking naked flesh before an indescribable pain explodes through my body. And I hear my loud scream which reverberates around the lofty interior of the warehouse. My scream sounds like that of a wounded animal and it unsettles the other slaves working nearby who avert their eyes and quicken their efforts to avoid angering their own overseers.

“Lift, damn you, boy!” Hiram angrily exhorts me to greater effort. “Put you back into it and hurry it up!”

And to emphasize his command, He stands behind me and continues to lash my back.

And as the whip urges me along, I draw on a hidden reserve of strength I never knew I had. In coming days, I will find that, while I think I have reached the very limits of my physical endurance, an overseer’s whip can always help me find that little extra strength I need to meet the insatiable demands placed upon me. Hiram’s whip proves a great motivator!

Three more times the whip falls on my unprotected back before I respond. Then, as if by some miracle, after the third stroke, I am standing upright and helping Brutus to carry the crate out to the waiting wagon. Even so, I find this challenging; my knees buckle and I stagger under the heavy, unaccustomed burden. Brutus sets the pace that I must follow and when we reach the wagon, he places his end of the crate on the tailgate and clambers on board to position it. While he pulls effortlessly, I have to push my end with all my strength under the vigilance of both Hiram Pettigrew and Asa Clutterbuck.

That first crate is the heaviest and working on the basis of progressively loading the heaviest items first, all the boxes, barrels and other sundry items become easier for me to lift and carry. Nevertheless, it is still hard work and in the high humidity of the early afternoon, both Brutus and I are sweating copiously. The sweat beads on my forehead and stings my eyes. Unable to stop to wipe the sweat from my brow, it drips from the end of my nose and its salty taste stings my lips aggravating my thirst. I long for the cooling balm of cold water but we aren’t allowed to pause in our labours for such self-indulgence. I find myself hoping that we’ll be rewarded with water once the wagon is fully loaded.

Sweat coats Brutus’s magnificent body in an oily sheen that highlights his superb musculature. He reminds me of one of the pseudo-Greek or Roman sculptures of naked gods or athletes with which the Northern aristocracy love to adorn their salons.

Then, I feel my own sweat trickling down over my naked torso soaking and darkening the worn fabric of my osnaburg trousers. I wonder if my sweat-soaked body arouses similar feelings to my own in those around me. I don’t have the bulk of Brutus’s body. After all, his well-honed physique has been cast in the forge of unremitting hard labour over many years and tempered by the mind-numbing repetitive nature of that work.

It takes us about thirty minutes to load up the wagon. I know this by the chiming of a clock in a distant church steeple marking the quarter hours. We load the lumber lastly and I assist Brutus in securing the load with stout ropes under the supervision of Hiram Pettigrew. I recall some of the roads leading out to Belvoir are rudimentary and deeply rutted. Obviously, Hiram is taking all necessary measures to ensure we don’t lose any of our load. Once Hiram is satisfied that all is secure, he directs Brutus and me to a nearby water-trough used by horses to quickly quench our thirst and, as he grumpily tells us, to “wash off the stink of your sweat”.

Never has water tasted so fresh or so sweet; it is like soothing balm to my parched mouth and throat. My thirst quenched, I scoop up water in the cup of my hands and splash it on body. Then I palm the excess water and sweat from my chest and belly. For a few brief moments, I savour the relief the cold water brings me from the day’s oppressive heat. But my enjoyment is short-lived and is cut short by Hiram’s angry shout.

“Ptolemy! Stop wasting time and bring you lazy ass back to the wagon and be quick about it or you’ll taste my leather.”

His threat to use the whip on me works. Having already “tasted his leather” I am now very afraid of Belvoir’s chief overseer and I hastily run back to where he waits by the wagon. I watch to see what Brutus does next so that I can follow his lead.

Brutus quickly dons his shirt and I retrieve my own ready to put it on for the journey out to Belvoir. But Hiram Pettigrew has other ideas and tells me to

“Leave your shirt off, boy! We need to start acclimatizing your body to the elements and to darken that pale hide of yours. Climb on board the wagon” then turning to Brutus, “and Brutus shackle his ankles. We don’t want him running off!”

I clamber on board and scramble to sit atop one of the crates and wait as Brutus refastens the shackles around my ankles. Then, after Hiram checks that I am secured, he orders Brutus into the driver’s seat and takes his place beside him as a passenger. Hiram wastes no time in ordering Brutus to

“Drive on!”

Brutus slaps the reins against the horse’s rump and slowly we move away from the warehouses and through busy streets that lead us out into the countryside.

Finally, I am returning home to Belvoir but not as I’d expected when I disembarked from the river-boat just a few short hours ago.

Rather than returning home as a son and heir in the comfort of a carriage and four, I am travelling out to the plantation as a shackled, semi-naked slave.

I’m overwhelmed by my ‘changed circumstances’ and fearful of what awaits me at Belvoir.

Conclusion

 Postscript:

The picture used to illustrate this chapter is another example of the magnificent artwork of garyRo whose works, as you know , I greatly admire.

Looking at the picture and using my imagination,  I see the new slave Ptolemy has been returned to Belvoir Plantation to begin his new life there as a slave. True to his word, "Massa" Yves has had Ptolemy strung up by the wrists and flogged with ten cuts of the lash following which he was then taken to the blacksmith's forge and branded on the right pectoral with the Broussard family crest marking him for all time as a Belvoir Plantation slave.

We see Ptolemy wearing a soiled and stained loincloth common to all of Belvoir's male slaves and  he has been left chained up overnight to recover before being assigned to a work gang of field-slaves next morning.

This was one of my early stories and I abandoned it to write "Changed Circumstances" which follows a similar theme. Nevertheless, "Le Noveau Monde" ranks as one of my favourite stories and revisiting and posting it to the blog has given me so much enjoyment.  It has re-awakened my interest in this story and I now wonder about Ptolemy's  life as a slave at Belvoir Plantation to such an extent that I am tempted to write a follow-up series called "Ptolemy" in the near future.

Chris