Bend and spread, boy!

Le Noveau Monde

Part 3

A story of Longing and Rejection

This is a story of erotic fiction which contains sexual references and is meant for those over the legal age. If you are underage, please leave now.

Written by Jean-Christophe (Chris) in 2009 but never posted.

Updated December,2013.

The characters and ideas in this story belong to the writer's imagination and bear no resemblance to actual persons or events. Please, respect the integrity of the story and don't do any rewrites, make alterations or add pictures.

Part 3: "Bend and spread, boy!" 

“M Bellamont, I have one more favour to ask of you. As you can see Ptolemy is too well dressed for a slave. I ask your permission to have him change out of his finery into clothes more befitting a slave.” 

“You have it, Yves! I take it that you came prepared for this eventuality and have brought a change of clothing with you?” 

“I have M Bellamont! Hiram has slave togs in his bag. If you’d just fetch them for us Hiram we can have Ptolemy put them on and we can be on our way.” 

I watch as Hiram removes a change of clothing from the bag he’d been carrying. Now it is plainly obvious that my half-brother had planned – and prepared – for this eventuality. There’d never been any doubt in his mind that day’s end would see me reduced to slavery. 

There are two articles of clothing; loose fitting trousers and a sleeveless, open fronted shirt which is the standard issue for Belvoir’s male field-hands – as it is for most slaves in Louisiana. But the reality is that on Belvoir plantation, the male slaves work near naked with a minimum of clothing comprising a brief loincloth. My late father preferred this state of near nakedness as he felt it was “kinder” to the hard-pressed slaves as they sweated in the heat. After all, with a slave’s copious sweating as he toils at his labours, any clothing soon becomes wet and uncomfortable and results in soreness and skin irritations which can impact on the slave’s labour output. 

And I  always suspected that my father liked looking at the strong, muscular, near nude bodies of his slaves as they toiled to enrich him. And of course, naked slave-flesh is so much more responsive to the overseers’ whips. 

In time, I will discover my half-brother, Yves – or Massa Yves as I must now call him – is miserly and begrudges every penny he spends on his slaves and their well-being. Therefore, clothing for his male slaves is the bare minimum that modesty demands.

The articles produced by Hiram Pettigrew are made of cheap Osnaburg; the coarsely woven material made from flax, cotton, jute or unrefined linen which is manufactured in Scotland and exported by the British to her slave colonies in the Caribbean and the slave states of the United States.

Both articles of clothing are unbleached beige in colour and they are threadbare and obviously much worn. It would appear that I am to wear the cast-off clothes of another slave.

I am ordered by Yves to strip.

“Shuck off those fancy togs, boy. Let’s have you buck-assed naked!”

I’m shocked by my half-brother’s order. Apparently, I’m not to be afforded any privacy as I change my clothes. Obviously, I’m to strip naked in front of everyone.

I know nudity for a slave isn’t out of the ordinary. At Belvoir, I’d witnessed many slaves – both male and female – being made to strip naked for an inspection by my father and Hiram Pettigrew. Indeed it was routine before slaves were sent to market or were being selected by them for the Belvoir’s slave breeding programme. I’d watched as Hiram, acting in his role as stud master, humiliatingly examined the most intimate parts of the females and discussed their potential for producing “healthy suckers” – a euphemism for a slave baby. Then he’d examine the males weighing and hefty their balls and stoking their cocks to full erection commenting all the time on their breeding potential.

Hiram took his stud master duties very seriously and methodically chose which buck he’d mate with a wench. He’d have the naked slaves stand side by side as couples while he compared their bodies and discussed with my father their potential for “dropping a prime sucker”. Hiram never hurried and always took his time before making a final decision as to which buck would cover which female. Like pieces on a chess board he’d reposition the slaves until he was absolutely satisfied with each couple’s capacity to produce the finest progeny.

Therefore, my nakedness is of no consequence to anyone other than me and as a slave, my nudity won’t affront anyone. Nevertheless, I do hesitate and I receive a sharp rebuke from Yves.

“I gave you an order, boy! Do it quickly and count yourself lucky I won’t string you up by the heels and paddle you ass when we arrive back at Belvoir.” 

The tone of Yves voice tells me this is no idle threat and I know he is capable of carrying through with it. Several times I have witnessed as some hapless slave was “strung up by the heels and ass-paddled”. It was a favourite form of punishment used by my father and as a youngster he’d made me watch to “harden my attitudes” toward our slaves.

The barbarity of the “ass-paddling” had sickened me; however, as a teenager I’d also found them highly erotic and I’d always watched in a state of full arousal. Indeed, there were occasions when, through my inexperience, I’d spontaneously ejaculated into my undergarments.

Watching as corporal punishment was administered to a helpless slave was visceral and struck a primeval chord within me. The site of a naked buck suspended by his heels from a rafter in the barn and with his legs pulled widely apart emphasised the slave’s powerlessness and my father’s absolute mastery over him. As the slave waited with wide-eyed fear for the first strike of the paddle, he’d babble incoherently through his ball gag – I suppose the one in my mouth has been used for these occasions - and he’d struggle violently to free himself.

The paddling had always been administered by the slave Brutus – the same one who holds me firmly in his vice like grip - and he’d strip naked for the occasion. I was never sure why he did this; perhaps it was a requirement of my father’s sadistic lust but the spectacle of a naked slave hanging upside down being ass-paddled by a nude, massively aroused Brutus was always powerfully evocative. It reminded me of pictures I’d seen in my father’s books about slavery back in the days of the Roman Empire – a period of history that my father always related to and it was the source for the naming of some his house slaves.

The paddle used at Belvoir is made of thick perforated leather and is, in Hiram’s words, designed to “blister a slave’s ass, good and proper”. Hiram openly boasts how a slave won’t be sitting down anytime too soon after his paddling and would be sleeping on his belly. And wielded by Brutus, it is indeed a fearsome implement of pain.

The sickening “thwack” of the leather paddle striking naked flesh reverberated loudly around the closed confines of the barn and drowned out the muffled cries of its hapless victim. Each blow set the slave’s body swinging like a pendulum and there was always another slave on hand to grab hold of him and to steady his body ready for the next strike.

All too soon, the slave’s ass was bright scarlet and the paddle’s perforations raised coin sized blisters which ensured the slave felt his punishment for many days to come. But worse was to follow. Always, after an ass-paddling, my father insisted that pimentade and coarse salt be applied to the slave’s abused buttocks.

Father claimed the pimentade and salt were efficacious in the healing process and prevented any permanent disfigurement of the slave. Whether or not this is true is open to conjecture but I do know it added another dimension of agony to the slave’s already appalling suffering.

As Hiram callously rubbed the salt onto the slave’s inflamed buttocks no thought was given to his discomfiture. Quite obviously, the salt stung the lacerated flesh but it wasn’t until the pimentade was liberally applied to the slave’s body that his true suffering began. It always seemed to me that Hiram was too liberal in his use of the pimentade. Using a special sponge on a wooden handle he’d generously “paint” the slave’s ass several times before pouring the fluid into his ass-crack. I’d watch as the fiery liquid slowly trickled down through the cleft and over the twisted, contorted muscles of the slave’s back.

The slave’s cock-shrivelling shrieks of pain – even the gag couldn’t completely mask them – gave eloquent testimony to his suffering. I could only imagine the unbearable pain he felt as the astringent mixture set fire to the tender flesh of his anus and testicles.

Even more heartrending was the sight of the slave’s futile attempts to ease the pain of the pimentade as he thrashed around in his bonds. Like some convoluted, obscene dance his body twisted and contorted itself so violently that it shook the stout, oaken rafter from which he hung suspended.

Once, I questioned my father about the ingredients of the pimentade. He wasn’t all that forthcoming and simply told me that an old slave woman prepared it from a recipe that included the juice of limes, ground chili powder, cayenne pepper and some other ingredients.

So, I am all too aware of what is involved in an ass-paddling and I know from the vehemence that Yves is showing towards me that he is capable of carrying through with his threat to “string me up by the heels and to paddle my ass”. My fear of such is so great that I begin to undress.

I remove my jacket and waistcoat and very carefully fold them and then look around for somewhere to place them. Silently – and I sense sympathetically - M Bellamont indicates that I can place them on a small table standing against a side wall. As I do so, the door opens and M Arceneau and his clerk enter the office.

“The papers have been drawn up, Franҫois?” M Bellamont asks M Arceneau.

“Yes Barthélemy! All that is required is for us to sign them and to ask out clerk to witness Yves signature. Then the person formerly known Thierry Guillaume Broussard will officially become the slave ‘Ptolemy’ the legal property of Yves Benoît Broussard of Belvoir Plantation.”

I watch as the two attorneys sign the document that condemns me to slavery and suddenly I am convulsed by a violent shivering. How can this be happening to me? When I awoke on the riverboat this morning such a thing would have seemed incomprehensible. But it is happening and I hear Yves being asked to sign the paper that will see me become his slave.

As he walks to the desk, he pauses long enough to slap my face and to reprimand me.

“Boy, you were given an order to undress. Continue or I really WILL have your ass paddled. Shuck down! Do it - NOW!”

As Yves signs the document, I untie my cravat and strip to the waist by removing my shirt. Then I bend to unbuckle my shoes and to remove my leg hosing. All that remains now is for me to step out of my trousers and undergarment. Despite my fear of Yves’s anger I hesitate to take this final step that will see me stand before the two attorneys, Yves and Hiram Pettigrew as a naked slave. Even Brutus is to watch my shame but as a slave he is of no consequence. Nudity between slaves is normal.

I see the red flush of anger suffusing Yves’s face and I know I have delayed too long. His words confirms this’

“Your intransigence has just earned you ten strokes of the whip when we arrive back at Belvoir.”

His words chill me and, white-faced, I apologise.

“I’m sorry, Yves!”

This time, Yves slap to my face is delivered with such force that I’m thrown off balance and knocked to the floor. And he orders me to.

“Get up! And as a slave you are now to call me Massa Yves like all my slaves!”

As I scramble to my feet, I see their sympathy for my plight reflected in the faces of the two attorneys; embarrassed by what they are witnessing, they look away. I wonder do they remember me as the small boy who’d accompanied his father on his visits to them. Can they remember me sitting quietly in a corner of the office busily drawing on the paper which they’d kindly given to me to while away the time as they talked business with my father?

Now stripped to the waist and shoe-less, I hastily unbutton my trousers and allow them to fall in a heap around my ankles before stepping out of them. Only my underpants are between me and total slave nakedness. I look towards Yves hoping that he will save me from this ultimate humiliation. Surely, he must have some residual affection for me; I am after all his half-brother. My eyes plead with him to no avail. He curtly orders me to.

“Continue, boy!”

I have no other recourse but to obey Yves’s command. Already, he has sentenced me to ten strokes of the whip and any further delays on my part could see that number increased.

I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my undergarment and ease them down over my legs. As I bend at the waist to remove them, I’m acutely aware that my nether regions are exposed to the scrutiny of all those present in the room. I feel the stretching of my sphincter as it opens up and I feel the full weight of my balls hanging low between my thighs.

Now, totally naked, I stand with bowed head and cover my genitals with my cupped hands in a futile attempt to retain some level of personal dignity.

“Put your hands behind your head and stand up straight!”

Yves’s - or as I must now call him, “Massa”- command is imperious and not to be ignored and I take up the position he demands of me.

“Well Hiram, now that you see him buck naked, what’s your opinion of Ptolemy?”

“The boy looks to have good potential. I bit lightweight but from what I can see the building blocks are there. May I finger him at close quarters?”

“If M Bellamont and M Arceneau have no objection I most certainly don’t.”

Even as they give their reluctant consent for Hiram’s inspection of me, I sense the attorneys distaste at having a naked, slave buck examined by an overseer in the inner sanctum of their august law chambers. Nevertheless, the owners of Belvoir Plantation have always been among their most valued clients and, no doubt, they are anxious for this to continue. Therefore, it is easy for them to temporarily put aside their distaste and to watch impassively as Hiram “fingers” me.

I have the body of a typical eighteen year old. I have reached my full height of a shade just over six feet and I am large framed. However, my muscular development has yet to reach its full potential but for all that I have no reason to be unhappy with my physique. My youthful musculature is clearly defined and provides a good foundation for stronger development.

And I have been told that I have comely features with my grey eyes, full red lips and even white teeth. I have a thatch of thick, black curls and my limbs have a light covering of down to match. A darker treasure trail wanders down the centreline of my belly to my pubes connecting it to my chest hair. My skin complexion is a light golden colour – something I’d always thought enhanced my appearance – but now it would appear it defines me as a “person of colour” and a mulatto slave.

I stand passively as Hiram’s hands travel down over my body expertly gauging my potential as a slave. His manner is business-like and I instinctively know that I am being appraised by a connoisseur of prime slave flesh. Somehow, the impersonal nature of his inspection diminishes me as a person. Under his expert hands, I am no longer a man; I have become an animal or a beast of burden being assessed for my strength and work potential.

Hiram visits many indignities upon me as he squeezes my biceps feeling for their hardness then pounds my chest as a test of its soundness before forcing my mouth open to inspect my teeth. His inspection also involves giving a running commentary on my body to my Master. He turns me around and gauges the width of my shoulders before his searching hands sweep down over my back to the twin curves of my ass-cheeks. He takes hold of an ass-cheek in either hand and kneads them just as a baker would with his loaves and tell Yves that I have an ass like a “working bullock”. He adds that this is a good thing as much of a slave’s strength and capacity for hard work comes from having a muscular ass and strong legs.

But the worst indignity occurs as he subjects me to a close quarter examination. He perfunctorily orders me to. 

“Bend at the waist, boy!”.

I feel his left hand resting on top of my ass as he parts my buttocks and runs his finger up and down my ass-cleft. Then, without warning, he thrusts a finger into my anus. I’m taken by surprise and begin to squirm uncomfortably as his finger probes deeper into the recesses of my rectum searching for my prostate gland. For my efforts, I am rewarded with two sharp slaps to the buttocks and told to.

“Stand still, boy while I check out the health of your ass!”

His probing finger makes contact with my prostate and he comments favourably on my good response. Satisfied, he withdraws his finger and contemptuously wipes it on my back before parting my legs to give him easier access to my testicles. He tugs down on my scrotum and rolls each ball between his finger and thumb before hefting them in his cupped hand. He tells his watching audience that.

“The boy has a good pair of gonads!”

I’m familiar with the term “gonads”.  It is used disparagingly by white slave holders when talking about their slave’s testicles and I’d heard my late father use it countless times over the years.

Hiram repositions himself and reaches between my legs to under my belly and clutches hold of my penis; he pulls back on it and begins a stripping action very similar to milking a cow. Despite my shame, I find myself responding unwillingly to his manipulations and my cock thickens and lengthens. This pleases Hiram who smiles at my half-brother and tells him.

“Yves, he’s a helluva fine, young buck!  He’s well hung and he’s hair-triggered too with an excellent response. You could well have yourself a potential breeder with this boy.” 

To hear myself described as possible ‘breeding buck’ fills me with dismay. Suddenly, my mind is transported back through the years to the time when I’d illicitly watched the mating of one of my father’s slaves to the Reverend Winterbourne’s female slave. I recall how Hiram had stood behind the young slave and applied his “viper” to his ass urging him to thrust harder and deeper into the wench. Is this the fate that now awaits me? I am full of revulsion and yet I know there can be no escaping such an appalling prospect if Yves, my new Master decides on this course of action.

Hiram has finished his fingering of me and I am ordered to.

“Boy, straighten up, put your hands on top of your head and face the front!”

He delivers his verdict on me.

“Yves, there’s no doubting that he’s a true son of Ham! One only needs to look at the size of his cock and balls to know he’s not fully human. No white man could be hung as heavy as he is. It ain’t natural. He’s built like a proud, young stallion. You’ve got yourself a prime young buck with this slave.”

“What about his immediate future, Hiram? What do you recommend for him?”

“My recommendation is that you use him as a field-hand. Although he’s well set-up, he does need the conditioning of the type that comes about through hard labour. Just look at his muscles; they are well-defined but soft. They need hardening up. A few months hoeing cotton in the fields or cutting sugarcane and you won’t know him.”

“Well, Hiram, initially, I had thought of using him as a house boy!’

“And you still can, Yves! But first build on his physique, toughen him up and condition his mindset to that of a slave. Give him twelve months as a field slave and he’ll be broken in and most biddable. Twelve months under the whip will teach him obedience and make him most docile. And after all, isn’t that what you want – an obedient slave?  You don’t want an unbroken, untried slave working in your home, do you?”

“No Hiram, I guess you’re right! Very well then, Ptolemy will spend time in the fields learning to be a slave. I give him over to your supervision.”

“Thank you, Yves! I promise you won’t be disappointed. I’ll turn Ptolemy into a tamed slave for you. But with your permission, I’ll have him dress and we’ll be on our away. As you know, I still have supplies to pick up from around town before we head out to Belvoir. I’ll take Ptolemy and he can help Brutus load up the buckboard.”

“You have it Hiram! I still have papers to sign with M Bellamont and M Arceneau before I ride out to Belvoir. However, there’s no reason for you to wait around on me. You should be about your business and I’ll see you back at the plantation.”

Hiram retrieves the Osnaburg trousers and shirt and contemptuously tosses them at my feet.

“Boy, get these togs on and be quick about it! They reek to high heaven but that won’t worry you as you add your own slave stink to them.”

I welcome the chance to cover up my nakedness even if it is with a slave’s clothing. I have two items to wear; just the trousers and shirt. There are no undergarments – such things are unknown to a slave – and I am to go bare-footed which is normal for slaves at Belvoir.  The exceptions to these are house servants who wear the more elaborate satin uniforms and buckled footwear of the footman or the parlourmaid. But I am to be a field-slave and will therefore remain barefooted.

I hastily scramble into the faded beige trousers which are unwashed and reeking from the copious sweating of their previous wearer. They are of the slip-on type; there is no fly opening and incongruously it flashes through my mind what I must do if I need to piss. The tattered legs barely cover my calves and they are very loose fitting around my midriff. I stand holding them up and wonder what to do next. Obviously, if I let go my hold on them they will slip down over my hips into a crumpled heap around my ankles.

However, Hiram tosses me a length of coarse, hempen rope with frayed ends to serve as a belt. As I tie it around my waist, he tells me to.

“Hurry along, boy! I haven’t all day to wait on you.”

All that remains for me now is to slip the ragged, sleeveless shirt over my shoulders. There are no buttons to be fastened and the open-fronted shirt leaves me almost bare-chested.

I now wear the garb of the common field-slave - soon to be replaced with a brief loincloth - and any lingering doubts I have about my true station are quickly dispelled as Hiram Pettigrew bids farewell to the two attorneys and takes his leave of my Master. I listen to their conversation and learn that Yves will ride directly back to Belvoir while Hiram picks up supplies from a riverside warehouse before he begins the slow drive back to the plantation.

Tears mist my eyes. This morning, I’d awoken with such high hopes of re-uniting with my half-brother Yves and his family and I’d been excited at the prospect of seeing Belvoir Plantation and its beautiful colonial mansion set amid its lush, green gardens. These hopes had been cruelly dashed. It’s true; I have been reunited with Yves, not as his brother but as his slave.

And my dreams of a joyful return to Belvoir have turned into a nightmare. Rather than my triumphant return as one of its co-heirs, I am returning as a slave now condemned to work out my days at Belvoir toiling under the overseer’s lash as a common field-hand.

And as though to drive home the message that I am now under his control, Hiram unclips the “viper” whip from his belt and lightly flicks it against my ass.

“Move your sorry ass, boy! There’s work to be done. And you too Brutus unless you want a taste of the snake on your ass.

There’s no pain in his action; just contempt and the humiliation of being driven on like a dumb animal I’ve become.

The clerk escorts us off the premises out into the early afternoon sunlight of the busy street,

Hiram orders me into the back of the buckboard and chains my ankle to a ring-bolt. As he does so he tells me.

“We don’t want you trying to make a dash for freedom, do we? Least ways not before you wear the Belvoir brand. Nor do we want a valuable slave like you falling off and injuring yourself. Now you just rest easy and sit quietly until I need you to help Brutus load up with the goods for Belvoir.”

Hiram climbs into the seat alongside Brutus and tells him to.

“Drive on!”

I have begun my sorrowful return to Belvoir Plantation.

 To be continued 

The picture used to illustrate this chapter is part of a larger artwork by Amalaric. The text is mine.