The Slave and his Mistress Ch. 03

Gyorg had had his first encounter with Solande's esteemed pair of guests earlier that day. As his capricious Lady had no use for him that morning, Gyorg had been sent to take his instructions from the overseer of the domestic slaves, who had set him to scrubbing down the walls, woodwork and masonry in one of the lesser-used corridors upstairs. It was in a remote wing of the house, far from the rooms usually used by the family. Working alone there, Gyorg had stripped to the waist to protect his outer garments from the water, when his mistress, who was personally escorting her guests to their apartments, had come upon him. He immediately assumed a suitably subservient position, dropping down in the soap-suds on the wet floor and stayed where he was, head-bowed as the trio approached. Taking their cue from Solande, at first neither of the new women openly acknowledged him, but both appraised the kneeling slave in detail as they passed by, taking note of the strength in his long, exposed limbs, and examining with interest the network of scars and old whip-marks that criss-crossed his back.

This immediately piqued Esadora's interest. "It seems we have a genuine work slave among us!" she exclaimed. "Can it be true, Solande? And how could such a creature have gained this high promotion? I had not thought to find such a one labouring in your guests' very living quarters, no less!"

"On your feet, Gyorg," Solande instructed coolly, making her way back towards the kneeling slave. The Lady was sorely irritated; Gyorg knew his mistress well enough to be acutely aware of that. "Get up! And make your answer to the Lady Esadora at once!" she snapped, tapping him abruptly with her ivory-headed walking-cane. "You have permission to speak!"

"What is your provenance, slave?" Esadora demanded. "Those marks on your back tell me you were not born a house-servant, I think."

"I was raised in a monastery, milady," Gygorg answered, directing his words towards the floor.

"Did you hear that!" the other sister, Lavinda, cried. "He said he was raised amongst the monks!"

Esadora smirked. "And yet you chose slavery over entry into that brotherhood? All in all a wise choice, I should say!"

"I understand that his Grace the new Abbot gifted Gyorg to my father years ago, in part-payment for the Abbey's outstanding mill-fees," interrupted Solande, impatiently. "Details that can be of no possible interest to you, Esadora. What difference can any of this make?"

"On the contrary, Solande," Esadora replied. "I find it all quite fascinating, really. We've seldom had the chance to listen to such a - colourful – biography, have we, Lavinda?" At this her sister shook her head, vigorously agreeing Esadora's point.

Solande sighed. "He was first sent to the mines; afterwards to the mills," she abridged. "And from there I selected him for house duty myself, as a curio, of sorts. Is that not the long and short of it, Gyorg?"

"That can't be all of it," Esadora stated. "Can it, slave? Quickly now! Answer me!"

The mill slave glanced from one woman to the other. "To beg your pardon, milady," he began, and swallowed rapidly, trying to moisten his dry throat. "After the mines and before the mill I spent many years as a field worker on his lordship's estate."

"That confirms it, you see," Esadora nodded. "From first sight I guessed that this slave's rude health, and strength of limb, could only have been attained in an outdoor environment. Not as one would find down in the dark of your family's silver mines, Solande."

"Really, I don't much care," Solande retorted, fixing Gyorg with a withering glare. "Dora, Vinda," she continued a moment later, in a much more cordial tone, "let us continue, now, and I will show you your rooms."

The three women left. But Esadora, as she departed, directed a long, speculative look over her shoulder, back towards the slave. It was the unspoken interaction between her friend Solande and her vassal, as much as anything that had been said that intrigued her; Solande was typically the coldest of fish – absolutely implacable – and yet when addressing the slave she had shown flashes of quite uncharacteristic – if antagonistic - warmth. Esadora wondered what it could be about this unprepossessing-looking fellow that could have caught her friend's interest; what could have had a chance to grown up between them - and was determined to get to the bottom of it.

Gyorg watched them go, a knot of apprehension roiling in his stomach. Having spent all his adult years in varied roles as a slave, he had had ample opportunity for learning about the worst in human nature and had determined very quickly that the two sisters, Esadora in particular, were of a typically malicious – or even sadistically-inclined - type. If not high-born, the pair would perhaps have gravitated towards careers as slave-overseers or prison-wards; any roles that would have granted them dominion over their fellow-creatures. It had been a grave mistake, then, for Gyorg to risk Solande's ire by contradicting her in front of her guests, but he was a simple, honest character and when he answered Esadora's question he had done so without thinking clearly of the possible consequences. And it was also true, whether Solande cared to notice it or not, that he spent the bulk of his life as a field-hand! It was an experience that Gyorg could not so easily forget about, nor edit from his past.

The longest period in his life as a slave was perhaps also the time when Gyorg had been happiest – or rather, most content. Through the changing seasons, out in every kind of weather in the fields, the farm-hands worked in close contact with one another, and the mill slave's peers had soon realized what the mine-overseers had not – that despite his loss of hearing Gyorg was still a capable, and thoughtful man.

After the day's work was done, the field hands and other outdoor slaves were left much to their own devices. The male and female enclaves were separate but close enough together to allow easy evening visiting and though Gyorg, officially, had been denied his sexual privileges, supervision of the slaves at night was lax enough to allow him occasionally to slip through along with a party of his mates. From the first the women slaves however, wanted little to do with him. For all that his average looks and unremarkable behaviour gave him every appearance of a normal male, the women had all had heard it whispered that there was something not right about Gyorg, and superstitiously fearing that his hidden affliction would somehow infect or corrupt them they invariably gave him a cold-shouldered berth. On one disastrous occasion a mate of Gyorg's persuaded his particular girl-friend of the time to take Gyorg to her bed, but the look of fear and shuddering distaste with which the woman received him was enough to wilt his eager manhood, making it shrivel between his legs – and as after that no further attempts of his - or hers - would make it harden again, the young Gyorg soon left her, his chastity intact. But then the slave girl – still little more than a foolish maid herself, at the time – proceeded to spread gossip, speaking in intimate detail and embellishing Gyorg's failings far and wide, and for a while the mill-slave became a well-known figure of fun. If he had persevered after this in time no doubt the women, like the men, would eventually have grown to accept him, but after that mortifying early set-back the slave, sorely embarrassed, withdrew all efforts to socialize with the opposite sex.

Gyorg's loneliness and his bachelor state pained him sometimes, but he threw himself into other pursuits to fill his free time, and when the ache in his balls grew deep enough, well, there was always solace in the friction and stimulation he could bring himself at his own hands. Though he pleasured himself sparingly; raised among an assortment of deeply religious women and men, Gyorg had learned to masturbate only of late, and was still on some level convinced that only hellfire and damnation could follow, should he regularly partake of such solitary pleasures of the flesh. More practicably, privacy was impossible in the shared slave dormitories, and try as a man might to keep quiet under the bedclothes during the course of his personal indulgences, his neighbours in the adjacent cots - if more often than not the whole sleeping-hut - would invariably have a good idea of what he was about. A level of ribald heckling and jesting usually followed a slave's groaning completion - or attended him on the following morning – though this was not usual where Gyorg was concerned. For his colleagues had sympathy for his unmated plight, and by unspoken agreement rarely mentioned this subject to him. It was yet another means by which his affliction had set Gyorg apart from his peers, and it too, grieved him.

Still, Gyorg certainly did not lack for friends among the men of the field slaves during this period. In the monastery he had received years of tutoring in languages and was able to both read and write the letters of his own tongue, and even had some understanding of the Latin texts. Hard, manual labour had not yet deadened Gyorg's intellect or his interest in learning at this time, and he was happy to share his knowledge with any of his peers who showed an interest – and though not many of them did, often in the evenings, when the other men of his age were off carousing in the women's compound, Gyorg and the older slaves, together with the very young would gather and he would recite for them and write - by scratching letters in the dirt, passing on the basic lessons and scriptures he had learnt as a boy.

An especially promising pupil of Gyorg's had been a much younger man named Devrin. Born a slave on a distant property, this fellow had been sent in trade to Solande's family estate, and when he arrived was not much older than Gyorg had been when he was first indentured. Sympathising with the inexperienced youth's plight in a strange, new place where he would forever be divided from his boyhood friends and family, Gyorg had very much taken the young Devrin under his wing. Over the years a close companionship had grown up between the two men and despite their differences in age and outlook, they had come to regard each other as brothers, almost. The middle-aged Gyorg, with his stoic nature and steady habits had long received the privileges of a senior or well-trusted slave - whereas despite the older man's calming influence, (or perhaps because he had grown over-confident, having lived for years under Gyorg's protection) Devrin was a youthful hot-head, who was forever insinuating and encouraging his fellow workers in revolt. It was not that Gyorg could not understand his young friend's reasoning, which was based – as he himself had been taught by the enlightened scholars of the abbey so long ago - on the fundamental equality existing between all men, but when Devrin stood up and argued for an overthrow of the existing system of indentured serfdom - by violent means if necessary - he began to feel genuine fear for him.

For unlike Devrin, Gyorg had seen at first hand the swift fate dealt to agitators among the slaves before: any hint of rebellion in their ranks, if it reached the overseers, would be quashed in the most merciless and brutal fashion, and the repercussions for the remaining slave populace were equally severe, and long-lasting. The after-effects of a failed revolt persisted long after the actual event, costing years of untold misery, in terms of the increased levels of slave-control, punishment and imprisonings that would be inflicted afterwards; retribution that would be meted out even upon those slaves who had not themselves been directly involved in the uprising. In addition to the standard mark of his owner's estate that was branded onto his right shoulder, front and back, Gyorg, for example, still bore a pair of faded white scars, one on the upper surface of each wrist; symbols that had been burned into him shortly after his arrival on the estate as a punishment for slave revolt – notwithstanding that the rebellion in question was not one in which it would have even been possible for Gyorg to have participated, since at the time it took place he was neither physically present on the estate nor technically, yet even a slave. He counted himself lucky to have escaped worse, however. The aftermath of that long-distant uprising found dozens of men and women dead, undoubtedly many of whom were innocent of any crime, and this brought home to Gyorg perhaps more forcefully than anything else could have the reality of his reduced new status as a slave. His masters, and by extension, the overseers acting under their jurisdiction had quite literally the power of life and death over him, as they held this power over all the slaves under their control. In this kind of environment, compliance was of paramount importance and the young Gyorg had rapidly learned to assume a facade of servile docility and submission, attitudes that despite his native spirit had eventually become ingrained in him over his long years as a slave.

But argue as he might with Devrin, for the younger man to show or at least speak with caution and restraint, Gyorg's pleas went unheeded. There were invariably a few spies or informers present in any group of slaves and he feared that perhaps one or more of them was even included in Devrin's trusty clique of confidants – a cadre of like-minded young men and youths who, ever on the look-out for what they called 'excitement,' were always keen to stir up trouble. More and more over the final harvest season that Gyorg was to pass among the field-slaves did Devrin turn towards his group of rebel confidants and ultimately, it was one of these boys who betrayed him. A daring feat had been planned among them that would coincide with the end of the harvest; grain wagons were to be overturned and set alight - the estate's produce for the whole year ruined - but the slaves' plot was uncovered before it had any real chance to take hold. At the first sign of difficulty most of the agitators scattered far and wide leaving only Devrin and few of his companions standing firm; as Devrin, who had been singled out as ringleader (no doubt on some anonymous informant's advice) was surrounded and brought to task by the chief of the overseers, even those few faithful compatriots of his then fled.

Although a growing distance – something of a rift - had opened between Gyorg and his protégée over that last summer, the older man still cared deeply for his friend and was mindful of his welfare - whether Devrin liked it or not. Aware that some mischief was being planned and ever watchful on Devin's account, he had however been unable to discover any details of the plot, and so it happened that Gyorg was working on the far side of the barley fields when the abortive sabotage attempt began to unfold. Quickly roused by the yells of the overseers and cries from the dispersing slave-men, he covered the distance between himself and Devrin at a frantic pace, only to find the young man at the centre of a circle of onlooking overseers and trusted field-hands, lying all but insensible at the chief overseer's feet. Yet still the larger man continued to belabour his victim with his heavy cudgel; his intention seemingly was to continue and beat poor Devrin to death.

Breaking throught the ring of spectators Gyorg flung himself at the overseer, grappling with him. Though inexperienced in hand to hand combat, Gyorg's work-hardened muscles and sinews - and moreover his absolute sense of desperation – lent him an unusual and tenacious strength. Clawing and gouging at the larger man furiously, he beat him around the head with the haft of the plough-shovel he was still carrying, and, when that came loose kept on hitting him using his feet and knees, pummelling him again and again with his bare fists until at last the heavier man began to sag down unconscious; it had taken as much to halt his attack on Devrin. The strength and ferocity of this assault – coming, astonishingly, as it did from the ever-reliable Gyorg - had momentarily stunned both onlooking overseers and the other trusted slaves, who otherwise would have been far quicker in their respose; but their reaction, if slightly delayed, was in no way diminished for all that. Gyorg was swiftly beaten down – beaten senseless - by the mob. On reviving, chained to the whipping post, his formal punishment was continued under the lash and he received a prolonged and brutal thrashing that left the whole of his back, sides and flanks red-raw. From there he was then sent for questioning on the rack and confessed, under minimal duress, to having been the main instigator and chief mastermind of the failed revolt. Whether this transparently false admission of guilt was ever enough to save Devrin, Gyorg never knew, for he was never to resume his old life among the field slaves. Following a slow and painful recuperation from his injuries – a miserable convalescence that took place over long months of solitary confinement in the slaves' prison – his duties were transferred to the grain-mills. Only his long years of dependable service as a field-slave had stood between Gyorg and more immediately effective death-sentence; though conditions in the mills were of course such as made the actual benefit of any so-called 'leniency' that had been shown him highly questionable in point.

This, then, was the crime for which he had been sentenced. As it was an offence of violence he was shackled as a matter of course - which added an extra dimension to his plight, for with his hands bound behind his back Gyorg was left utterly reliant of the good-will of his fellow mill slaves. He was tied in place of course, and without their help he could not leave his post at the grinding wheel; could not take in food or other much-needed sustenance during a work break; couldn't, as he was soon humiliated to discover, even pass his water without another man's express assistance. While aiding him grudgingly, Gyorg's compatriots in the mill complained bitterly to their superiors about the additional burden that he – and the other violent offenders like him - represented. Their grievances were taken seriously; the mill overseer soon promoted a new assistant from the ranks of the existing trusted inmates. Among this man's duties would be the day to day tending of the rebel field slave and others of his ilk.

Gyrog was dozing on his feet, head-down, in the traces when the new overseer's assistant reached him. By this time he had no qualms remaining; with scant few opportunities for relieving himself he had learned to empty his bladder whenever the chance presented itself. Placing his nosisesome slop bucket down on the floor, the assistant took hold of Gyorg's member to help him aim properly, for which the slave was inordinately grateful. Few men in the mill would have bothered with this, and as careful as Gyorg tried to be it was impossible to piss standing up without a greater or lesser amount ending up splashing his legs or his feet: if that happened to be noted by an overseer, he would invariably receive punishment for it. This man held him until he was finished, solicitously shook the last remaining drops out of him, and seemed to keep hold for a little while longer than usual, after.

He came to the narrow stall where Gyorg was chained that night, and worked the sleeping slave up to an easy orgasm. It had been so long for Gyorg, who in his drowsy torpor was already half-hard and wanting, that his ejaculation came on almost as soon as the new assistant began masturbating him with swift, efficient strokes; barely roused from slumber it was too quick for the mill slave to properly feel the pleasure of it, almost. Over too quickly or not however, the man had then expected payment in kind. Forcing Gyorg to his knees, with one hand on his jaw he had made the slave open his mouth then began trying to fuck him down his throat. As his assailant set to work the rank odour and foul taste of the man's unwashed organ made him retch and want to vomit, for Gyorg was not a fancier of men by nature; and though by instinct of self-preservation he tried to force himself receive him willingly, it was all too much. After a few hideous moments of fighting for air, choking on the stinking member thrusting for his mouth Gyorg bit down by reflex - and then his new admirer's cries had roused up everybody.